


When Fate Summons

by mille_libri



Series: Fate [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 83
Words: 131,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6545212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the daughter of the Warden Commander and King Alistair goes missing, a band of adventurers must assemble to find her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Runaway

The midday sun beat down on the road. It was an unseasonably hot day for spring in Ferelden. Normally, 8-year-old Anawyn Aeducan would be rejoicing at a day like this after all the long winter months cooped up in the Vigil, home of the Grey Wardens, but today she wished for cooler weather. She’d been walking for only a few hours, but was already hot and sweating, her clothes dusty, and the water skin she’d filched from the kitchens mostly empty. Apparently her mother had been right, and it did take a long time to get to Denerim, as Anawyn, for all her walking, still hadn’t reached the edge of the Arling of Amaranthine, where the Vigil was located.

Sighing heavily, Anawyn headed for a stand of trees just off the road, sitting down for a few minutes in the shade and eating a bit of the dried beef she’d brought along. She gave a thought to giving up and going home—if she snuck in, maybe no one would notice she had even left. Or she could throw herself on the mercy of Anders, one of her mother’s lieutenants. He had a soft spot for the Commander’s daughter and often stepped in to try and mitigate Anawyn’s punishments, usually by making the Commander laugh. Anders was one of the few who could. Anawyn’s mother was famed for her military bearing and no-nonsense attitude. Only Anawyn and a few close friends got to see her more fun-loving side. Although sometimes, when either Anawyn or Anders would say something funny, the Commander would sigh and look sad instead, saying they reminded her of someone she hadn’t seen in a long time. Anawyn found this confusing, as the person she usually reminded people of was her father, the King of Ferelden, and he came to the keep at least every other month. 

Long ago, during the Blight, Anawyn’s mother and father had traveled together. They’d been the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, charged with ending the Blight, and along the way had fallen in love with each other. (This part they both stressed very hard, when they told Anawyn the story. That they had loved each other.) Anawyn’s father had become king, and since her mother was a dwarf, they couldn’t be together any longer. But by the time they parted, Anawyn was already on her way. She didn’t quite understand the mechanics of all that—she’d watched the mabari in the kennels, so she had some idea of what breeding was about, but wasn’t sure how it went with people. 

Anawyn’s life had been spent at the Vigil. She was taken to Denerim rarely—only twice that she could remember—so mostly she saw her father every month or so when he came to visit. Despite their protestations that they had loved each other once, her parents spent little time together when her father visited. Mostly, he played with Anawyn. Her father was always laughing and joking when Anawyn was around, and it took a lot to make him angry. But his smile would fade when her mother came in, and usually they would talk briefly of politics, or Warden affairs, or Anawyn herself, and then one of them would leave the room. She’d never once seen them touch each other. When she was younger, she remembered dimly that they used to joke more and acted more like friends, but they didn’t do that anymore.

Her father had a wife, the queen, in Denerim, and a little boy named Duncan. He told Anawyn about Duncan a lot, but she had never met her half-brother. As a matter of fact, that’s what she had been arguing with her mother about this morning. 

_It had all started over breakfast. Anawyn had been eating with Uncle Oghren’s family. Oghren was the Commander’s Second—he had been with Anawyn’s parents during their journey to end the Blight, and had stayed on to become a Grey Warden when Amaranthine was overrun with darkspawn about a year after the Archdemon had been killed. Oghren and his wife Felsi had two children, Aeda and Rog, and Anawyn had been watching the two of them play while she ate breakfast. Sometimes it was lonely living in the Vigil. Oghren and Felsi lived in a little cottage on the grounds, so Anawyn was the only child in the keep itself._

_When her mother came looking for her, Anawyn looked at her curiously. “Mother, are you going to get married so I can have a little brother who lives here with me? Father keeps saying he’ll bring Duncan to see me, but he never does.”_

_Mother exchanged glances with Uncle Oghren, then said, “Don’t be silly, Anawyn. Keeping up with you is as much as I have the energy for.”_

_“Can’t deny it’s a lonely life for the little cave-tick,” Uncle Oghren said._

_“Yes, but I’m hardly going to get married and have a baby over it! I can’t, anyway. Once was miracle enough for a lifetime,” Mother said softly, looking at Anawyn._

_“The boy should bring his son around. Good for all of ‘em.”_

_“Right.” Mother chuckled, but didn’t sound amused. “Because Dorothea is jumping at the chance to let her son come here. She’s spent eight years trying to convince Alistair to stop coming.”_

_“You’re too hard on him, Thora,” Aunt Felsi chimed in. “He does his best.”_

_It was an old conversation, and Anawyn had lost interest by that point. She knew her mother didn’t like her father’s wife, and she strongly suspected from what her father didn’t say that the dislike was mutual. By the time she’d finished her porridge, Mother and Uncle Oghren had moved on to discussing keep business, and she waited impatiently to ask to be excused from the table. At last, Mother turned to look at her. “Are you ready for lessons, Anawyn?”_

_“Yes, Mother.” She dropped a curtsey to Aunt Felsi, thanking her for the breakfast._

_“Anytime,” Aunt Felsi said, then grinned after a receiving a pointed look from the Commander. “Next time, just ask your mother first, will you?”_

_Anawyn blushed. She had a terrible habit of running off to go places without asking permission first. “Sorry, Mother.”_

_The Commander’s brown eyes—exactly like Anawyn’s own—twinkled. “Sorry until the next time,” she said with a sigh, but a smile also. “Ah, my girl, you’re headstrong, just like your mother. And impulsive, like your father. An unfortunate combination. Come on, then.” She threw her arm around Anawyn’s shoulders. Since the Commander was a dwarf and Anawyn took after her father, who was a reasonably tall human, Anawyn was only a few inches shorter than her mother._

_As they walked back across the compound, Anawyn asked, “Can’t we go to Denerim sometime, Mother? Father keeps promising that he’ll send for me, but he never does.”_

_Her mother sighed. “He means to, sweetheart. It’s just … more complicated than he wants to admit.”_

_“But if you took me, then he wouldn’t have to send for me.”_

_“There are reasons why that wouldn’t be a good idea,” her mother said._

_“Please, Mother? Please please please?” She stopped walking, her hands clasped before her beseechingly._

_The Commander’s soft brown eyes hardened. “Anawyn, I said no.”_

_“Mother, I want to go!”_

_“That’s enough!” The Commander thundered at her daughter very rarely, and usually that was enough to quiet Anawyn, but it had been longer than usual since she’d seen her father, and she didn’t understand why she never got to do anything._

_“Fine! If you won’t take me, I’ll go on my own!” Immediately Anawyn’s mind conjured up images of what that would be like, strolling calmly into the castle, where her father would lift her up, his eyes shining with pride, and the pretty queen would come out, interested to see who this resourceful girl was._

_Anawyn’s mother laughed at the idea. “It’s a good three days’ walk from here, and that’s for a seasoned campaigner. You’d be exhausted and ready to come home by noon.” Her eyes softened as she reached out to stroke her daughter’s red hair. “I will take you sometime,” she said. “When … everyone is a little older.” And with that the Commander turned to walk back to the keep. “Dennis is waiting in the schoolroom,” she called over her shoulder._

_Staring after her mother, the plan formed itself in Anawyn’s mind. She checked in with Dennis in the schoolroom first. The red-haired mage looked up from his desk, smiling. “Ah, Anawyn. I see your mother found you.”_

_“Um, yes. And I’m in … big trouble,” she said, pleased with the sudden brilliance of the idea. “So I have to go to my room. And stay there.”_

_“On a lovely day like this?” he said mildly. “And missing lessons, too?” He sighed. “All right, then. I have plenty of other things to do.” He waved her off, absorbed in his papers again almost before she’d left the room, and Anawyn went into motion, changing from her dress into a set of leathers, taking her cloak in case it rained, and sneaking down to the kitchen to fill a pack with food while the cook wasn’t looking._

Now she sat beneath the trees, no longer so sure of what she was doing. What if Father wasn’t pleased to see her? What if Mother was right and his wife would be angry with her for coming? And it was so hot. She stared up into the trees, willing a breeze to come through. 

In a few moments, it did, rustling the leaves and sending cooling all through her. That had been happening more often recently, things occurring when she willed them to. 

With the relief came the return of her confidence. Anawyn stood up, walking back to the road. Suddenly she stopped short with a gasp. The road, which had been empty a moment ago, now had two people standing in the middle of it. One was an old woman, tall and commanding, the other a black-haired girl about the same size as Anawyn. The girl looked familiar, somehow, but Anawyn couldn’t figure out why. 

“Wh— Where did you come from?” Anawyn stammered.

“Where anyone would come from, child,” the old woman said, smiling. “And where are you going?”

“Denerim,” Anawyn said proudly. 

“All by yourself?” The old woman looked admiring. “You’re quite young to be traveling so far by yourself, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I do it all the time.” She hoped the lie would make her seem older.

“Indeed.” Anawyn had the uncomfortable feeling that the old woman knew all about her. “Would you mind if we tagged along, my grand-daughter and I? We’re not familiar with the road to Denerim. Perhaps you can help us find our way.” It almost seemed as if the woman was laughing at her. Anawyn didn’t entirely like this idea, but how could she say no? She nodded. “Excellent,” said the old woman. “This is Cybele, and you may call me … Granny.” The old woman threw her head back and laughed, as if at a delightful joke. The other girl stared at Anawyn solemnly.

“Uh … great. My name is Anawyn.” Anawyn gave one more thought to going back home, then joined the woman and girl on the roadway, heading toward Denerim.


	2. Witchy Woman

Thora was in her office with the keep’s seneschal, Varel, late that afternoon, looking over reports from around the Arling. “The new settlement in the Blackmarsh seems to be thriving,” she remarked.

“Unbelievable, really, after all the years that land lay cursed. You did an amazing thing dispelling the demon there,” Varel said. 

There was a knock on the door. Varel got up to answer it. Thora heard one of the servants murmuring to him about some woman waiting to see the Commander. “What is it?” she called out.

Varel turned, but before he could speak, Thora heard the sharp, cold voice from the hallway. “I do not have time for such niceties. The situation is dire, and I must see the Commander this moment.”

Thora’s jaw dropped. “Come in, Morrigan,” she said when she had recovered her voice. “Varel, I suspect we will want to talk in private. Would you mind?”

“Of course, Commander.” He bowed, staring openly at Morrigan as he left the room.

The two women stood looking at each other for a moment. “Morrigan,” Thora said at last. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh, a few things have certainly changed,” Morrigan said, flames sparking in her golden eyes. “I now know when I have been lied to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Flemeth has taken my child. Flemeth, whom you told me was dead!” It was the first time Thora could remember hearing Morrigan raise her voice.

“Er, to be fair, I never actually said she was dead,” Thora stammered, quailing under the mage’s gaze. “I just didn’t correct you when you assumed it.” Morrigan glared at her. “We thought we owed her a debt! She saved our lives, after all.”

Morrigan snorted. “Did it never occur to you to wonder why she saved you?”

“So there would be Grey Wardens left in Ferelden to stop the Blight?” Thora hazarded. 

“Indeed. That was one reason,” Morrigan said. “Having a grandchild who is an Old God was another one.” She studied Thora for a moment, calming somewhat. “I understand that you, also, have a child. And that your former lover has actually acknowledged his parenthood. I did not think he had it in him to be so … stalwart.”

Three minutes before the first Alistair slur. The witch was slipping. “Yes,” Thora said simply. 

“May I ask—do you know your daughter’s current whereabouts?”

Thora frowned, wondering what the mage was getting at. “I believe she’s in the schoolroom. Why?”

“I have reason to believe my mother was coming here.” There was a strange sympathy in the witch’s eyes now. “For your child.”

“What?! What would she want with Anawyn?” Thora asked, moving swiftly to the door and throwing it open. She looked down the hallway for a servant.

“Has your daughter displayed any aptitude for magic?”

Stunned, Thora turned to the mage. “How do you know that? It’s only been in the last couple of months, and we’ve told no one.” Spying one of the junior Wardens, Thora said, “Can you fetch my daughter from the schoolroom, and then see if you can find Anders? Tell him I need him to report to my office immediately.” The Warden bowed, and Thora nodded back. Then she turned to Morrigan again. “How do you know about the magic?” she asked again.

“’Twas merely conjecture. There were indications that Flemeth had come this way, and the most likely possibility seemed to me that Flemeth was planning to use your daughter as her new vessel.”

Thora stared at Morrigan. So many questions crowded her brain that she couldn’t choose one to ask. It was at that moment that she caught sight of Anders’s broad-shouldered figure coming down the hall.

“Pet mage?” Morrigan murmured, noting the robes he wore. Then, as Anders came closer and she could see the strong resemblance, she snorted. “I see you have a new Alistair.”

Thora rolled her eyes. “Hardly. And no to what you’re thinking.” She couldn’t deny that it had crossed her mind, especially in the early years just after Anders had joined the Grey Wardens. And there was little doubt in her mind that Anders would be willing … but she couldn’t bring herself to do that to either of them. Thora knew Anders would never be what she wanted him to be, and he deserved better than to act as another man’s proxy. Even though—or perhaps because—she knew she couldn’t love him, he had grown to be her closest friend and she trusted him as she’d trusted few people.

He was looking confused as he neared the office door. After glancing curiously at Morrigan, Anders turned his gaze on the dwarf. “Was there some reason you were expecting Anawyn to be in the schoolroom?”

“Because it was supposed to be her lessons day?” Thora’s eyebrows raised, concern growing within her.

“According to Dennis, you sent her to her room for the day.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because she ran off to Oghren’s for breakfast, apparently.”

Thora sighed heavily. “Honestly, Dennis will believe anything. If I sent her to her room for the day every time she ran off to Oghren’s, she’d spend the rest of her life in there.” She caught her breath. “If she’s not in the schoolroom, where is she?”

In a few minutes, the entire keep was mobilized to look for the Commander’s daughter. But she was nowhere to be found. Thora was desperately searching the pantries when suddenly she stiffened, remembering her conversation with Anawyn earlier that morning. She took off running down the halls, calling for Xandros. 

The elf appeared from a room at the end of the hallway. Xandros was one of the only two Wardens recruited in Thora’s first year in Amaranthine to have survived the attacks of the Mother and the Architect, along with the mage Dennis. “Commander?” Xandros asked quietly.

“Xandros, I think Anawyn is trying to walk to Denerim to see her father.” He started to speak, but Thora held up a hand. “Will you go see if you can find her? It is possible … there is a woman who may be trying to … take Anawyn. Please keep your eyes out for any signs of … struggle, or, or well, anything that could have happened to her.” He nodded, moving swiftly toward the stables. Xandros still had ties to family in the Denerim Alienage, and had become the Wardens’ delegate to the Landsmeet. He knew the roads to Denerim better than any, and was the best hunter and tracker in the keep. He would find any trace of Anawyn, if any of them could.

Hailing a passing servant, Thora gave him a list of people to bring to her office. She ran her hands over her face, groaning. Anawyn would have to have picked today, of all days, when she was being hunted by a powerful maleficar, to decide to run away. When Thora got her hands on her daughter … if … She clenched her jaw against the tears that stung at the back of her throat. Crying wouldn’t help anyone.

When they were all assembled—Morrigan, Anders, Dennis, Oghren, Varel, and the dwarf Sigrun, who had once been part of the Legion of the Dead—Thora filled them in. When she was done, there was a long silence.

“What do we do now?” Anders asked. His eyes were dark with worry.

Thora was grateful for years of training as soldier and commander. Without them, she’d have been a screaming puddle of fear on the floor right now. She took a deep breath. “Anders and Sigrun, begin preparations for a long campaign. It appears that Flemeth has—“ She took a long, shuddering breath. “Has taken my daughter. It may take a long time to track them down.” She looked at Morrigan for confirmation, and the witch nodded slowly, once. “Oghren, Dennis, and Varel, you’ll be in charge of the keep until we get back. However long it may take.” The red-headed dwarf nodded as well, but without any of his usual grunts or hearty commentary. Thora was relieved he hadn’t argued with her. “You and I, Morrigan, will leave for Denerim within the hour.”

“Why must we go to Denerim?” Morrigan said, in a dread-laced tone that said she already knew.

“To get Alistair.” At the mention of the king, Oghren grinned, Anders winced, and Morrigan looked pained. Thora ignored all of them. “He needs to know, and we—“ She paused, her voice nearly breaking. “We will need him.”


	3. Take It on the Run

The two women were on the road less than an hour later. It was difficult to talk too much with the pace Thora set. But once night fell, they had to slow to a walk—the best lanterns didn’t add any too much light to the dark roads. Thora decided that while they were forced to go slowly, she needed some answers.

“What is she going to do to the girls?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

“Physically? Nothing, for now. Your daughter’s magic will need training, and she will need to be older before Flemeth can feel comfortable taking her vessel. My daughter—“ Morrigan bit her lip, looking away. “My daughter she will retain intact until she has decided how best to harness the Old God.”

“Will the darkspawn be seeking your daughter? They are drawn to the Old Gods.”

“It is possible.”

“So between the Grey Warden taint in Anawyn’s blood and the Old God’s soul in—I’m sorry, I don’t know your daughter’s name.”

“Cybele.”

“The Old God’s soul in Cybele’s, those three are perfect targets for any roaming bands of darkspawn.”

Morrigan glared at the dwarf. “Aren’t you supposed to have eradicated the darkspawn?”

“Apparently it’s not quite so neat as we were led to believe.” Thora shrugged. “There aren’t many of them, but they appear occasionally. Can Flemeth handle herself?”

“My mother can become a giant dragon. What do you think?”

“So you think there’s no immediate danger to the girls?”

“Flemeth will be trying to bend them to her will.”

Thora laughed mirthlessly. “I wish her luck. An entire keep full of Wardens has tried to bend Anawyn’s will. Flemeth may be a powerful old woman, but I still give our daughters fairly good odds against her.” After a moment, she looked at Morrigan. “What does she look like? Cybele.”

“Alistair,” Morrigan said disgustedly. “Her hair and eyes are my color, but her face … is his.”

“Anawyn is the same. Alistair’s face with my hair and eyes. And Duncan, his son, as well—his mother’s coloring but the Theirin features.” Thora laughed again. “That must drive you crazy.”

“And you as well,” Morrigan said. “I take it the course of true love has not run smoothly?” It was mockingly said, but her eyes were unexpectedly kind.

“I suppose that was to be expected.”

“Let me guess—Alistair attempted to do what is right by everyone, and ended up falling all over his own feet and making things worse?” Morrigan gave a rare, genuine smile. “Who could have guessed?”

Thora smiled as well. “He’s good to Anawyn, and does his best to be a good father. It’s … as much as I could have hoped for.”

As they reached the end of the Wending Wood Thora felt the prickling of her skin that signaled the presence of another Grey Warden. “Xandros?” she called softly, and tried not to jump as the white-haired elf appeared out of the trees. 

“Commander,” he said, his eyes going from Thora to Morrigan and back.

“Xandros, Morrigan,” Thora said. “I take it you didn’t find her.”

“No,” he said. “But I saw what happened. The little one rested under some trees, and was joined by another person—an old woman, if I had to guess—and a young child. Footprints about the same size as Anawyn’s. It got too dark to see well, so I haven’t dared to keep going, lest I miss something. For what it’s worth, I have not sensed her.”

“Flemeth may well have flown off with them, once it got dark and there was less chance of being seen,” Morrigan said quietly.

“Xandros,” Thora said, “Morrigan’s child was the other girl. And her mother the … kidnapper.”

“Her mother can fly?” 

“Her mother is a dragon.”

“Only occasionally,” Morrigan put in. 

The elf’s green eyes studied the witch. “I see this situation is rather more complicated than we had thought. Where are you going, Commander?”

“Denerim. The King needs to know of this.” Thora took a deep breath. 

“I will accompany you,” Xandros said.

“Very well. We’ll make camp here until it gets light enough to see. I want to make sure we’ve uncovered everything we can before I go to her father.” Thora felt the tears welling up again, so she busied herself unrolling a blanket. “Best get some sleep,” she said, desperately reaching out with all her senses to feel her daughter near, but there was nothing.

She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before eventually crawling out of the blanket at first light. They were moving more slowly than they had yesterday while Xandros searched for signs of the old woman and the two girls. He eventually found where the three of them had turned off the road. Morrigan looked at the traces of little feet, her face softening as though she could feel some essence of Cybele in the footprints. Xandros pointed out a large swath of grass that was bent and trampled. “That looks like a dragon’s tail, don’t you think?”

Morrigan glanced at it. “Yes. That was my mother.”

“How can you tell?” Thora asked.

“I can feel it.”

“We’d best get moving, then,” Thora said wearily.


	4. Wrapped Around Your Finger

Alistair sank back in his chair, stretching his booted feet out toward the fire. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension drain out of him. These were the best moments in his day, the hour or so in the late afternoon when he had a chance to lock himself in his study and just be Alistair. “Whoever that might be,” he muttered to himself. Sometimes he thought he ought to get himself a mabari, if only to have someone to talk to. The guards outside the door had stopped poking their heads in to see if someone had snuck in past them, but he knew they still thought it strange that he talked to himself. Who else would he talk to? he reflected. The nobles, guards, and servants all expected him to act with all the ease and polish of a born noble. The people wanted him to be strong, fair, and firm, like a true king. Arl Eamon seemed to look for a mix of strong king and stable-bred bastard. Dorothea expected the contented husband and father. And Alistair himself didn’t want to let anyone down by admitting how much of his daily life still felt like an act.

“I wonder where Leliana is now,” he said, missing the bard. She was undoubtedly up to her unmentionables in snow, somewhere in the vicinity of Haven, on yet another attempt to find the Temple. The Chantry had financed two, and Alistair himself had financed this last one, because the Temple had gone missing. It was the best Leliana could do in explanation. Everything in Haven was as it used to be, but the Temple was simply not there. So now Leliana was gone from Denerim for an undetermined amount of time. And Wynne had returned to the Tower about a year ago. The spirit sustaining her had grown so weak Wynne was essentially bedridden, and she had asked to return to her early home for her last days. Alistair knew she and Irving spent many hours a day together, the First Enchanter’s deep devotion obvious to everyone. He couldn’t begrudge his friend her desire to die where she had spent so much of her life … but he was lonely, and longing for someone to talk to who saw him as who he really was. 

So he maintained this hour of solitude every day, when he could stretch out in peace and quiet and imagine what should be—the tasks of a Grey Warden that should have been his, the woman who should be by his side. Over the years he’d imagined Thora with him in every possible way. Not just naked, although Maker knew he’d pictured that often enough on every flat surface in the castle, but tender, or amused, or even angry. Dorothea never really got angry. Just disappointed. She had an idea in her head of who he was, and he had learned a long time ago that life was more enjoyable if he went along with what she thought. 

The brightest spot in his day was the time he spent with Duncan. Most people thought he indulged the little boy a bit too much, but Alistair was entranced by his son—by both his children, really, but he had the chance to be the hands-on everyday father with Duncan that he’d never had with Anawyn—and wanted to be there for everything if he could.

He settled deeper into the chair, thinking about the events of the workday. There’d been a particularly tricky meeting with the merchants’ guild of Denerim, and his brain was busy sorting through the problems that had arisen when he felt that unmistakable tingling, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. It was faint at first, but growing stronger by the second. His heart pounding, he sat up in the chair. This was the fantasy he allowed himself most often, because he knew how impossible it was: that one day she would just arrive, bursting in through his door to tell him that she forgave him, that she needed him, and, most importantly, that she still loved him. Her honor and her self-respect would never allow it, even if it were all true, he knew that, and he knew as well that he didn’t deserve it, but that didn’t stop his pulse from hammering as he sensed her coming ever closer to him through the castle. 

When he heard the voices in the hallway, he was prepared, listening as she scuffled with his overzealous Captain of the Guard. “It is an emergency,” he heard her say. “I will be going in.”

“Commander, you may not enter. The King’s study is sacrosanct.”

“I will enter—if it must be over your prone body, it will be.” Her voice was even and calm, and it didn’t surprise him that Dirnley stepped aside for her. The doorknob turned, and Alistair waited, standing behind his desk so he would trip over it if he tried to go take her in his arms. He was never quite sure what would happen when he was in the same room with her, but he knew one day his control would break and he tried to anticipate that by keeping obstacles in between them. His breath caught in his throat as the doorknob turned and he knew he must be grinning like a fool.

She came in, her face and clothes covered in the dust of the road, her eyes wild. And behind her, almost a shadow in the firelight … The smile faded from his face. “Maker’s blood!” 

“Alistair,” Morrigan said, a chilly half-smile curling her lip. 

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We have a problem,” Thora said breathlessly.

“What kind of problem?” he asked warily. If it had to do with Morrigan, it clearly was an emergency. And he wasn’t going to like it.

“Flemeth has taken the girls. Anawyn and … Morrigan’s child.”

Girls? Morrigan’s child? “A girl?” he said softly. Morrigan glared at him and he shook his head. “Right. Not the point. Flemeth?”

“She was the old woman in the hut whom you and the Commander here were supposed to kill,” Morrigan said sarcastically. “Does that jog your memory?” 

He was staring at her, his mouth agape, trying to keep up with this turn of events, when the doorknob turned again, briskly, and his wife stepped into the room, her brown eyes flashing. Of course, Alistair thought. Dirnley would have run to her as soon as Thora came in. 

Then he took in the tableau before him: Thora on his left, hands clasped behind her back in ‘at ease’ position; Morrigan on his right, arms crossed over her chest; and Dorothea directly in front of him, hands clenched at her side. He froze for a moment, then relaxed when the answer came to him. Clearly, he must be in the Fade! Having a terrible nightmare. As a matter of fact, he’d had nightmares similar to this before, usually caused by an overindulgence in cheese. He pinched himself surreptitiously, but they were all three staring at him as though he’d lost his mind and somehow this wasn’t the Fade at all, this was really happening, and what had he done to deserve this?

Taking several steps backward, Alistair found his back pressed up against the window. Right now, he’d almost have welcomed an assassin’s arrow. 

Thora looked at him quizzically, wondering why he seemed so panicked all of a sudden. Then she, too, looked around the room, and she realized what had him so distressed. Despite (or because of) the strains of the day, a giggle burst from her, then a snort, and finally she doubled over, laughing hysterically.

Morrigan looked concerned. “What is the purpose of this merriment? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“No,” Thora gasped, waving her arm toward Alistair, whose mouth was twitching suspiciously now as well. “Look at him. This must be—“ she paused to giggle some more, Alistair’s rich chuckle joining in now—“his worst nightmare.”

As Morrigan got it, her mouth quirked up at the corners as well. Now only Dorothea was left outside the bubble of mirth in the room, and Thora took no small amount of comfort from the woman’s bewildered expression. 

“What is the meaning of all this?” Dorothea asked, but it was more confused than imperious. 

Thora got herself under control at last. “Our king here,” she said, “has the unenviable position of being in the same room with the mothers of all three of his children.” She took even more comfort from putting it so bluntly, watching as the import of Thora’s words dawned on Dorothea’s face and the queen’s eyes raked over Morrigan with disdain.

“Thank you,” Alistair said, the laughter gone from his eyes. “Was that really necessary?”

“She’d have had to know,” Thora said, shrugging unrepentantly. “It’s like tearing off a health poultice—“

“Best if ‘twere done quickly,” Morrigan put in, still looking amused.

“Exactly.” 

“Would someone like to tell me what is going on here?” Dorothea was catching up now, and had at least decided she should be outraged. 

“Our daughters, Morrigan’s and mine, have been taken by the Witch of the Wilds.”

Dorothea looked at both of them as though they were very small children. “Surely there are better stories you could have told. The Witch of the Wilds is nothing but myth.”

“Morrigan, do you hear that? You’re a myth,” Thora said. Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

“If only,” Alistair muttered.

“If Flemeth and I were truly mythical,” Morrigan said, glaring at Alistair, “the King and Commander would now be rotting underneath piles of darkspawn corpses at the top of the Tower of Ishal.”

Dorothea shook her head. “You honestly expect me to believe this? Flemeth from the old legends, still alive, kidnapping children?” She put her hands on her hips. “This is what comes of the Grey Wardens consorting with all those apostate mages. One of them—probably that Anders fellow—has gone blood mage and enchanted the Commander,” she said.

Thora glanced dismissively at Dorothea, not deigning to dignify the remark by replying. She turned to Alistair. “Morrigan says Cybele—her daughter—was taken about a week ago. Anawyn went missing yesterday.”

“Went missing how?” Alistair asked, all his focus now on Thora.

“She and I got into an argument,” Thora said sadly, blinking back tears. “She wanted to come to Denerim, to see you and meet Duncan, and I told her she couldn’t.” Alistair had the grace to   
look abashed, and the queen looked pained. “So she apparently decided to come by herself. She lied to her tutor to get out of lessons, and wasn’t missed until midafternoon.”

“You didn’t see her all day, and that didn’t concern you?” Alistair asked in outrage.

“You hadn’t seen her in almost three months, and that didn’t seem to concern you!” 

“Alistair is the king, Commander, in case you’ve forgotten. He has more important things to do,” Dorothea snapped. It was the wrong thing to say, because Alistair immediately looked guilty and Thora glared at her.

“This is none of your concern, Your Majesty, so I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

“It became my concern when the man I was to marry told me he already had a child with another woman.”

“Are you never going to get past that? If you had accepted his past with grace, we might not be in this situation.”

“If you had not lied about killing Flemeth, we certainly would not,” Morrigan put in.

“You, too? Ancestors’ mercy, Morrigan, we owed the woman our lives!”

“And you owed me nothing? Did you think that she would merely slink off, never to be heard from again?”

“That’s what she said she would do,” Thora said to Morrigan, who arched a disbelieving eyebrow at her.

Dorothea glared down at the dwarf. “Was it really necessary to bring all this here? Couldn’t you have sent a messenger?” 

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, for thinking your royal consort might actually want to be informed when his daughter went missing,” Thora said. From the corner of her eye she saw Alistair moving around his desk, very quietly. “Stop right there,” she snapped. “Do you think you’re going to get out of here without one of us noticing?”

“Do you really need me for this?” he asked faintly. “The three of you have been doing fine without me.”

Thora looked up at him, suddenly so close to her, and forgot about the other two women in the room. She swallowed hard before admitting, “I need you to come with us.” She wanted to kick herself for having said it, but it was the truth. She couldn’t do this without him.

Alistair’s breath caught in his chest. Now he was certain he must be dreaming, but he was far less interested in waking up than he’d been a few minutes ago. “I can’t just up and leave the kingdom to run itself.”

“I’m sure there’s someone you can name as your regent while you’re gone,” she said. 

“And I am certain you have plenty of Grey Wardens who are eager to go off on this unbelievable quest,” Dorothea interjected.

Thora shrugged, not taking her eyes off Alistair. “Perhaps. But none of them have Alistair’s skill and experience. And none of them are her father.” Alistair searched her face, hoping desperately to see something that said she needed more than just his sword arm, but there was no message for him there.

“What if they come after Duncan?” Dorothea said.

Morrigan smirked. “My mother is not interested in a boy,” she said contemptuously.

Dorothea’s mouth opened, then closed again. She clearly didn’t have a response to that. She sighed. “Alistair, it seems to me that it would be irresponsible of you to go off for who-knows-how-long chasing after two little girls and leaving an entire kingdom leaderless. Maybe we could offer some men, if the Grey Wardens cannot provide enough for themselves.”

“Yes,” Morrigan drawled coolly. “That is the kingly thing to do, is it not?”

Alistair looked at her sharply, but could see no hidden meanings. He’d said so many times that he would not be his father, who would surely never have gone off on a quest to find him. He turned back to Thora, looking down into the brown eyes, snapping sparks at him. He felt more alive than he had in … years, really. And who was he kidding? It had been certain that he would go the moment she’d said she needed him. How could he deny her?

“I will go,” he said. Dorothea’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t see. He had eyes for no one but the red-haired dwarf.


	5. What's Love Got to Do with It?

Morrigan and Thora were given rooms in the castle. If Dorothea felt like objecting, she kept it to herself. She had made it clear years ago that Alistair’s ex-lover wasn’t welcome under her roof … but the idea of Alistair going off on a quest with the dwarf was far more disturbing than having them together in the castle for a night. Dorothea followed Alistair to his room, where he dug a well-worn pack out of the back of his wardrobe. He began sorting through clothes and shoving things into the pack.

“Alistair,” she said. He paused, looking at her. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

“What choice do I have?” he asked. “Those are my daughters, and they have been kidnapped by a very powerful … well, maleficar, at least, if not more.”

Dorothea frowned. “I don’t understand any of this. Why didn’t you tell me about this … other woman? And her daughter?”

He sighed, unsure how much to tell her. “When it comes right down to it, I didn’t really know. I mean, I knew there was supposed to be a child, but Morrigan left almost immediately.”

“Did you … love her, too?”

“Morrigan?!” His eyebrows flew up and he looked horrified. “Hardly. Quite the opposite.”

“Then why--?”

“Have a child with her?” He studied her. “It’s complicated. And involves, well, Grey Warden secrets.”

“There you go again,” she said wearily. “Anything you don’t want to tell me, you fob off as a ‘Grey Warden secret’.”

“In this case, it really is.” His cheeks reddened slightly. It was true, he did overuse the excuse, and it saddened him that after all these years he didn’t trust her enough to tell her everything.

“Then why does this … Morrigan know about it?”

“Morrigan always seems to know a great many things she shouldn’t,” Alistair growled. He shoved a few more pairs of socks into the pack. He hated having to wear wet, dirty socks.

“What about Duncan? You’ll be away for who knows how long.”

He stared off into the distance pensively. “I know. I hate that. He’ll miss me so much, and I him. But I see him all the time—I’ve been with him all his life. I owe these girls.” He sighed. “I have no choice.”

“And if she hadn’t asked you?”

“It is my duty.” He faced her unblinkingly, thinking that for a change that terrible word, duty, was working for him instead of against him as it had so often before. “Besides, I think it’s an excellent opportunity to reconnect with the land and truly gauge the state of the common folk. I was able to do that when we fought the Blight, and I think it has helped me greatly in ruling. A chance to get out there again amongst the people can’t hurt.”

“How will you be ‘amongst the people’ with your retinue and wagons?”

“I won’t be taking them. I assume we’ll need to travel far more lightly than that, and a group that is too big, too grand, or, Maker forbid, too royal, will attract entirely too much attention.”

“You’ll be assassinated!”

“In the company of the Commander of the Grey and a whole party of Grey Wardens? I’m not concerned,” said Alistair, grinning. He reached into the wardrobe for his warmest cloak and missed the flash in Dorothea’s eyes.

After a moment, Dorothea said, “You know you’ll be sleeping on the ground, in a tent, again.” 

Alistair’s love of his creature comforts was well known, and it was a good attempt. But her mention of tents caused the opposite reaction from the one she had intended. Immediately, his mind was filled with memories of the tent he had shared with Thora for so many months. The long nights of laughter, her warm body in his arms, the way she used to sigh his name … his heart beat faster. And he was reminded of something else. He crossed to the table next to his bed, pulling out the little drawer. He reached inside, pressing on a hidden spring, and then from under the false bottom, he took something. It was an amulet—Andraste’s holy symbol—with a web of cracks running across it, indicating that it had been broken and mended. It was attached to a chain made of braided red-gold hair. The same shade as the short spiky hair of the Warden Commander. 

Dorothea drew in her breath as she saw Alistair take out the amulet. “So that’s where it’s been?” she asked. “Right here next to your bed, all this time?”

He looked at her, sadness in his eyes. “I promised you I would take it off,” he said. “Not get rid of it.”

The amulet had been his mother’s. The chain that held it had been made out of Thora’s beautiful hair, which had nearly touched the floor when they were together. When they broke up, she had asked him to cut the long braids off, as a symbol to both of them. Thora had taken some of that hair and had the chain crafted by their dear friend Leliana. She had also asked Wynne, who had been like a mother to both of them, to enchant the amulet so it would never break. He had worn the amulet and chain for years as a visible reminder to both of them that their love hadn’t ended, even though they weren’t together. 

One morning just over five years ago, Dorothea had come to him in tears. Their attempts to conceive an heir to the throne—the greatest imperative of his reign—had been futile for almost three years by that point, and both of them were beginning to think it would never happen. He remembered the day vividly.

_Dorothea wept in his arms, despairing, and finally raised a tear-stained face to his, her lips trembling. “Alistair?” she said hesitantly. “May I— I would ask a boon.”_

_“A boon?” he said, holding her tenderly. “Certainly.”_

_Her hand crept up to his neck, touching the amulet, but not the chain. “I wonder … I think, maybe, part of the trouble is— How can I conceive when the constant reminder of your love for another woman is staring me in the face as we’re, um …”_

_Shocked, he took a step back to look at her. “Are you asking—?”_

_“Yes,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm for how tremulous it had been. “I am.”_

_“But I—“ he began, but looked into her face, so delicate. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was too much to expect that she could conceive under those conditions. “Well, maybe I could—but only until we conceive,” he said, already wondering how he would explain this to Thora._

_Dorothea sighed in relief and happiness, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Alistair. I … hate to ask, but …”_

_“No, I understand,” he said, glad to see her spirits rising. “I probably should have thought of it before.”_

He’d been due for a trip to Amaranthine not long after that. Probably he should just have put the amulet back on before he went, but somehow that seemed deceptive. When Thora saw that he wasn’t wearing it, she looked like someone had hit her between the eyes with a mace. As a matter of fact, he’d seen her after she had been hit in the head with a mace, and she’d looked considerably less perturbed. He tried fumblingly to explain about Dorothea and the difficulty conceiving and how Dorothea thought the amulet might be part of the problem. Thora had just scowled and muttered, “Of course she does,” then sighed. He had promised to put it back on when Dorothea was pregnant, which happened remarkably soon afterwards. But when he tried, Dorothea wept again, pleading the need to ensure her peace of mind for a healthy pregnancy, and he’d agreed to keep it off. Then after Duncan was born, early but surprisingly big and healthy, Dorothea’s convalescence had been long and difficult and … he had never put it back on, Thora had stopped looking for it, and things had never been the same between them. A part of Thora had been closed against him; outside of Anawyn, they no longer had any relationship. He didn’t even know if she still cared for him. Alistair realized Thora had felt betrayed by him, and he felt guilty about that. But he also thought she could have been more understanding, and resented her a little. After all, she had it easy, he thought. She didn’t have to try and genuinely care for two women at the same time.

Now he wrapped the amulet and tucked it into a leather pouch, stowing it carefully in an inside pocket of his pack. 

Dorothea drew in a shocked breath. “You’re taking it with you?”

He turned to look at her. “I’m going to give it to Anawyn. When we find her,” he whispered. He spent so much time away from his daughter that her disappearance was taking some time to sink in—it seemed to him almost as though she was just waiting at the Vigil for them all. But suddenly he felt the fear stabbing at him.

“Do you believe all this? ‘Witch of the Wilds’ and all that?” Dorothea’s voice was quiet.

“The Witch of the Wilds is real enough,” he said. “Whether the rest of it is all something Morrigan has cooked up?” He shrugged. 

“Could it all be some kind of hoax to get you out of Denerim?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Thora would never lie about Anawyn’s safety.” 

He was digging around in a drawer and didn’t particularly notice the bitterness in Dorothea’s voice when she said, “Of course she wouldn’t.” She waited until he had retrieved a belt—enchanted, by the looks of it—from the drawer. “What will you do about the throne?”

“Arl Eamon will make a fine regent. As Chancellor, he knows as much about running the kingdom as I do,” Alistair said.

“Isn’t he getting a bit long in the tooth?”

“Eamon? He’s younger than my father would have been, had he lived. Why? Do you have a problem with the decision?”

“No, not at all. It’s just … wouldn’t it be better if you named someone … closer to the throne?”

“Who, Duncan?” he scoffed. Then her meaning sunk in. “Oh, you mean you,” he said, startled.

“Why not?”

“You’re not really used to the day-to-day running of the kingdom, you know.”

“Perhaps I should be. More involved, that is.”

“That seems like something to discuss when I return. For now, I’ll just say you aren’t ready.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to think better of it. “I see I’ll have no luck talking you out of this.”

“No,” he said. “You won’t.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s going to be an early morning tomorrow and I suspect a long day.”

“Indeed,” she said, standing up and going to the door. “Good-night, Alistair.” 

“Good-night.” He watched as she left, closing the door firmly behind her. Once he might have asked her to stay, but since Duncan was born a distance had grown between them. He thought maybe the only thing they’d truly had in common was the need to produce an heir for the kingdom, and having done that, there was nothing to bring them together. You’d think the baby himself would have, but she’d been so ill after he was born … All Alistair knew for sure was that somehow he had made a royal mess of his relationships with two different women, and it felt as though it was too late to repair either one.


	6. Dirty Laundry

The following morning, Thora was up with the dawn, arguing with Dirnley. “Commander, you may not interrupt the king in his chambers.”

“I don’t want in his chambers, I want to make sure he’s up and moving! We have a long day ahead and it needs to get started now. We don’t have time for His Majesty to lie abed all morn— Oh.” She broke off when the door opened and a fully clothed Alistair, pack slung over his shoulder, stepped out. It nearly took her breath away, he looked so like her Alistair.

“There seems to be quite a bit of fuss,” he said quietly. “Is it really necessary to have all this going on quite so early?” He nodded toward a room down the hall. “I’d like to let Duncan get a bit more sleep before I have to wake him to tell him I’m leaving.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thora, genuinely contrite. She hadn’t thought about what he was going to have to leave behind to come with them. Not that she regretted asking, but she knew how much the little boy and his father meant to each other. “It just occurred to me that there is someone we need to speak to before we leave.”

“Who is that?”

“Eamon,” she said grimly. “He must have promised a hundred times to tell us about your mother, and has never done so. But now that Anawyn has magic—“

“Anawyn is a mage?!” Alistair gaped at her as they walked down the hall. “Since when?”

“A couple of months. Anders and I didn’t want to tell anyone until we were sure what to do.” 

_Always Anders,_ thought Alistair. She and Anders making the decisions together, lumping him, Alistair, in with ‘anyone’. _As if Anders was the parent_ , Alistair thought bitterly. He wondered, not for the first time, how many other ways Anders was taking the place that should be his, and his fist clenched.

“Anders was terrified that I would send her to the Circle,” Thora went on. “You know Anders. He sees a new mage, all he can think is keeping them out of the Tower and away from the Templars. I would never have sent her away—Anders can train her, or Dennis, just as well as the mages at the Circle—but it’s not wise to anger the Circle, either.”

“Do you think the magic is why Flemeth took her?”

“That’s what Morrigan thinks.”

“Our little girl to be trained as that witch’s new vessel?!” Panic and outrage flooded him, and he felt he could take on Flemeth by himself, if it meant keeping her from taking over his daughter’s body.

“It can’t be soon, though. Anawyn is the definition of untrained, and nowhere near old enough.”

“Why take her now?”

“To train her, has to be. It can’t be coincidence that it’s right after she started showing signs of being a mage.” They stopped at Eamon’s door, on which Thora pounded. “Eamon! It’s time.”

There was a silence, then muttering, and Eamon came to the door, blinking sleepily. “Commander? What’s going on?”

“We’re coming in,” Thora said shortly. She pushed her way into the room, ignoring Isolde’s shocked gasp and general state of undress. In a few brief words, Thora brought Eamon up to speed. Leaning on the edge of his desk, she crossed her arms and glowered at him. “Now I think we have come to the time when you need to tell us about Alistair’s mother.”

Eamon sighed, looking suddenly every year of his age and more, as he sank into a chair. “You may have guessed that she wasn’t a serving girl at the castle.”

“You mean that shrew Goldanna isn’t really my sister? Now you tell me,” Alistair said, looking pained.

Thora smirked. “How much have you given her?”

“Let’s just say she’s aptly named,” he grumbled. “So? Who was my mother?” he asked Eamon.

“A Grey Warden,” Eamon said simply. “They came to get your father, to have him lead them through the Deep Roads. He’d been there years before, during the rebellion, and they were looking for a member of their order who had … gotten lost somehow. I’m not clear on the details. Duncan was with them, I believe.”

Alistair still looked sad when his former mentor was named, Thora noticed. “Maric with a Grey Warden,” she said softly. “Well, there’s all sorts of irony there.”

“There’s more. You see, Fiona was a mage.”

“So we had gathered.”

“And an elf.” They both stared at him, their mouths hanging open. Eamon sighed heavily again. “It’s one reason the elves keep so to themselves. You see, the children of elves and humans are human.” He shrugged. “Now you know why I couldn’t tell you, not until Alistair’s reign was firmly established. If it got out …”

Thora was glad the desk was there to hold her up. She wanted to weep. If they had known, if they had only known, they would never have put him on the throne. They broke up because she couldn’t provide a sodding human heir to the throne, when all the while he was half elf. She clenched her jaw against the sudden hysterical grief over a life they never got a chance to lead, and refused to look at Alistair, knowing that anything she saw in his face would only make it harder to keep control.

The same thoughts were running through Alistair’s mind, although he also had to consider what Dorothea’s reaction would be if she found out she was married to a half-elf. It wouldn’t be pretty, he suspected.

Eamon waited, but when neither of them spoke, he went on. “So you see what your daughter means to this nation,” he said. “She has the blood of all Ferelden in her veins—the humans, the elves, the dwarves, the mages, and the Grey Wardens. She is … something never seen before. Flemeth knows all this—“

“Flemeth knows? How does Flemeth know?” Alistair asked, shocked.

“Because she met your father and Loghain in the woods during the rebellion. She saved them, as I understand the story. She predicted the Blight and told Maric a lot of other things he never shared with anyone. Loghain told me about the incident one night when he was in his cups.” Eamon frowned. “It does not surprise me that Flemeth wants the power your daughter must contain.”

“You knew all this, for years, and you never told us? Never thought to warn us?” Thora’s fists were clenched as she stood before the old man.

“I, um, was under the impression she was dead. She was an old woman when Loghain and Maric met her.”

Thora stared at him, overwhelmed. “And you thought you had some right to just keep this from us, all this time? If my daughter dies— If she is hurt …” Unable to finish the sentence, she turned and stalked out of the room. 

Alistair stood for a moment longer, looking at the old man who had been like a father to him during the first decade of his life. “I wish you had ever once trusted me,” he said with great pain. He sighed. “But now I have to trust you. I am going after my daughter.” He caught himself before he used the plural. Not everyone needed to know about Morrigan’s child. “I am naming you regent until I return, and I charge you, additionally, with looking after my son. You have been the driving force behind my presence on the throne and Duncan’s existence. Do not let anything happen to him,” Alistair said implacably.

“You have my word, Your Majesty. When you return, your child and your kingdom will be in good health.” Eamon knelt before his king, the first time Alistair could remember his doing so in private. “And, for what it’s worth, my boy, I am everlastingly sorry for the mistakes I have made in your raising.”

Alistair nodded briefly, not trusting his voice, and left the room.

The group of them assembled in the courtyard about an hour later. Alistair had spent that time with his son, trying to explain why he had to go. He felt Duncan understood as well as a 4-year-old was able to, but that didn’t make it any easier to tear himself away.

Thora and Morrigan and Xandros had their mounts from yesterday, ready to go, when Alistair joined them. He brought his horse from the stable, and then was startled when two more clattered out behind him. Dirnley, the Captain of the Guard, bowed before the King. “Your Majesty, we have orders to accompany you.” Jens, a giant of a man from the Southron Hills, stood silently next to the Captain. 

“Orders from whom?” Alistair asked.

“From me, my husband.” Dorothea emerged from the door. “You need someone to look after you.”

Many thoughts rushed through his head, and at last he sighed. A couple of extra men wouldn’t slow them down that much, and Dirnley for all his officiousness was a good man in a pinch. And it wasn’t really worth arguing with her, not right before he left. “All right,” he said. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” He smiled at her.

“It was my pleasure,” she said softly, coming to him. “Be careful.” There was an intimacy in her tone that had not been there for a long while.

Thora tried hard not to look, busying herself double-checking her saddle, her ears red. Alistair tried, as he kissed his wife good-bye, not to think about Thora standing only a few feet away. And they both failed completely.


	7. Would I Lie to You

Anawyn trudged along the road toward Denerim next to Granny, listening as the old woman went on and on about the wind in the grasses, or something like that. Admittedly, Anawyn wasn’t really paying attention. They’d been walking for several hours since she’d met the old woman and her granddaughter on the road, and Granny had done most of the talking, saying things that sounded perfectly serious but often laughing when she’d said them. At first, Anawyn had tried making friends with Cybele. She’d spent so little time with children her own age that she was intensely curious about this one.

_Dropping back a bit, to where Cybele walked just behind Granny, Anawyn tried a shy smile at the other girl. “Have you been traveling long?” she asked quietly._

_Cybele stared at Anawyn, her unusual golden eyes wide with surprise. “Yes.” She glanced up at Granny and then away, not meeting Anawyn’s eyes._

_“Where did you come from?”_

_“Far away.” Cybele’s eyes were on the dusty road now._

_“Are you going to Denerim?”_

_“I don’t know.” Now she was looking off into the trees along the road. Clearly the other girl would rather look at anything other than Anawyn._

_She tried again. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”_

_“No.” After a moment she added, “I don’t think so.”_

_“You don’t think so?” It was an intriguing answer. “Don’t you know?”_

_Cybele shook her head, staring straight ahead at Granny’s back._

_“What’s your mother like?” Nothing. Cybele wouldn’t even look at her now._

_Anawyn sighed._

Given the choice between Granny’s boring rambling and Cybele’s complete unwillingness to talk, Anawyn preferred Cybele, but all things considered, she’d almost rather be traveling alone. Since they were all going the same way, it seemed impossible to get away from the other two. All Anawyn could do was hope it didn’t take as long to get to Denerim on foot as her mother had said it would. She really didn’t want to spend three more days of this.

When the light turned gold as the sun began its descent in the later afternoon, Granny turned to Anawyn. “Should we stop to eat, my young friend?” 

“I … don’t have very much food,” Anawyn said.

“Don’t trouble yourself, child. We have sufficient.” The three of them turned off the road, Granny glancing back over her shoulder. She smiled to herself when she saw the empty road, as if something was highly amusing, but Anawyn didn’t see what.

Granny prepared a simple meal of bread and water. As the girls sat down next to her, she suddenly said, “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her bag and took out a big wedge of cheese. Both girls’ eyes brightened.

“I love cheese,” Anawyn said, clapping her hands.

“I do, too,” Cybele said more shyly. The two girls looked at each other, exchanging a small smile, glad to find something in common at last. Granny was smiling, as well, as she handed them each a piece of cheese. “Aren’t you having some, Granny?” Cybele asked.

“No, I don’t believe I will,” Granny said. “Cheese doesn’t agree with me.”

The cheese was a bit strange-tasting, but Anawyn enjoyed it. She and Cybele both ate hungrily. As Anawyn finished off the last of her bread, she yawned hugely. It felt like her face was going to split in two. “I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “I’m so tired.”

“All that fresh air and walking, child,” Granny said. “Why don’t you girls lie down and sleep?”

Anawyn had thought it would be strange to be sleeping here on the road, wrapped in her blanket, far from the Vigil and her family, but she was so tired she was asleep almost before she was aware of lying down.

When she woke up the next morning, they were all sleeping in the same positions, but nothing looked quite the same. In all her life, Anawyn had never been anywhere but Amaranthine or Denerim, and this was clearly neither of those places. They were on the edge of a great forest, so green and lush that Anawyn just sat staring at it for a long time. But what had happened to the road? She scrubbed her fists over her eyes, then got up to find Granny sitting near a small fire, drinking what looked like tea.

“Have some, child,” Granny said, holding out a cup.

“Where are we? What happened to the road?”

“We traveled a bit last night, don’t you remember?”

Anawyn thought hard. She didn’t remember anything but falling asleep. And dreaming of flying through the air. “No, I don’t remember traveling,” she said, confused. Cybele, sitting near the fire, looked up at the other girl, but didn’t speak.

“Perhaps you were so tired you’ve forgotten,” Granny offered.

“Are we almost to Denerim, then?” Anawyn asked hopefully.

Granny looked at her keenly, as though she hadn’t heard the question. “Child, can you make things happen just by thinking of them?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted quietly. She wasn’t sure if that made her a mage or not, and hadn’t wanted to say anything to her mother. Anders had said so many bad things about the mages of the Circle and the Templars, Anawyn had been afraid to admit that she thought she had magic, in case she’d have to be sent to the Tower.

“I thought so. And so did your mother,” Granny said briskly. “She asked me to train you.”

“She did? But—what about the Circle? Are you taking me there?” Anawyn knew that Wynne, the mage she had been named after, had been from the Circle. Maybe she would be there when they arrived. That might make it less scary.

But Granny threw her head back and laughed. “No, not to the Circle,” she said finally, still chuckling. “We have other places to go; quiet, private places.”

“Will my mother be there?” Cybele put in plaintively. It was the first question she had asked since Anawyn had joined them.

“No,” said Granny, almost sorrowfully. “I told you, your mother asked that you not have any contact with her until you are fully trained. As did yours,” she said, turning to Anawyn.

That didn’t sound right to Anawyn. She’d never been away from her mother, and she didn’t believe her mother would send her off with this old woman without talking to her about it first. “Why?” she asked.

“Because an untrained mage is dangerous, child.”

“Dangerous? You mean I could hurt myself?”

“I mean you could blow up the keep.” Granny’s gaze was straightforward and serious for once.

Anawyn gulped. “Oh. But couldn’t Anders or Dennis have trained me?”

Granny thought for a moment. “It is best if a woman does the training for another woman,” she said. “Don’t you think?” She looked at Anawyn as though she was really curious what the little girl thought.

Pleased, Anawyn nodded. “That sounds right,” she admitted. Come to think of it, the Commander sometimes did order the troops to do things without explaining, just to make sure that they were ready to obey her orders without question in case of an emergency. Maybe that’s what she was doing now. If Anawyn trained her hardest, accepting her orders without question like a true Grey Warden, her mother would be proud of her.

She got to her feet. “When do we start?”

Granny threw back her head, laughing, in that way she had, and motioned for Anawyn to sit back down. “We have more traveling yet to do, my eager young trainee,” she said. “But I do admire your enthusiasm. So like your father,” she said, with that secret amused look back on her face.

“You know my father?”

“And I knew your grandfather. You are very like them.”

Anawyn accepted the bread Granny handed her, glowing with pride. To be like not only King Alistair but King Maric! What a fascinating day.


	8. On the Road Again

Thora and Morrigan returned from Denerim with the king and his guards, and the next morning the company of travelers prepared to set off from the Vigil. Jens and Captain Dirnley stood at attention by the gate, waiting for the Wardens to be ready to go. Thora was deep in conversation with Varel and Dennis about matters at the Vigil to be taken care of while she was gone. Where was Oghren? she wondered impatiently. He should be here getting his orders.

She looked around for the red-headed dwarf, finally seeing him come through the gate. Felsi was right behind him, with the little ones clinging to her skirt. “It’s about time,” Thora snapped.

“Sorry, Commander. Had to make sure the wife got enough bronto in her cave before we go.” He elbowed Thora in the ribs, grinning hugely, while Felsi sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Wait, before we go?” Thora looked at him. “Oghren, you’re in charge here. You can’t go.”

“Warden, I have my orders from a higher authority,” he said, jerking a thumb at Felsi. “Dennis and Varel have things under control here, and it’s a good chance for a few of the junior nug-humpers to get some training in command.”

Thora looked at Felsi, who said, “She’s a special girl, Thora. Oghren’s blade will help make sure you get to her.”

Tears in her eyes, Thora hugged her friend. “You just want him out of your hair for a while,” she chuckled.

“True.” Felsi grinned. “The drunken sot smells like dead bronto—I need some breathing room.” Oghren growled at his wife, kissing her deeply—and inappropriately—while the assembled group clapped and whistled. Or looked disapproving, in the case of Alistair’s two guards from Denerim.

“Don’t you two have a cottage for that kind of thing?” Anders groaned. He nudged Thora. “What’s going on over there?” He motioned to where Xandros, Morrigan, and Alistair were having a very tense conversation.

The dwarf Sigrun came up in time to hear the question. “The King disagrees with Morrigan and Xandros about where we should go,” she said. She looked at Thora, wondering what the Commander’s reaction would be.

“I don’t know why he’s bothering,” Thora sighed, but she knew exactly. Alistair wanted Morrigan back in her outsider/follower position, and wanted to maintain his own authority. “All right,” she said, raising her voice. “Let’s move out!” 

Alistair walked over to her side, towering over her. “Move out? We don’t know where we’re going.”

“Yes,” she said. “We do.” She stared at him calmly, wondering how far he intended to push her.

“You’re just going to blindly follow her?” he asked quietly. 

“No, not blindly,” she snapped. “I trust her.”

“Why?” Alistair frowned.

“Two reasons. One, because she has as much to lose as we do. Two, because Xandros agrees with her, and he’s the best hunter and tracker in the Vigil.”

Alistair’s mouth opened, then closed again. Thora refused to back down. She was the Commander; he was, after all, the one who had put her in charge all that time ago. And there could only be one leader. “All right,” he said finally. “If you think we can trust her…”

She nodded briefly. They got started. After careful consideration, she had decided the extra hassle that came from the care and feeding and watching of horses outweighed the speed advantages, so they would be walking. And if Alistair said anything about it being like old times, she was going to punch him.

By a couple of hours after lunch, the group, which had started out in a fairly compact formation, had stretched out a bit. Morrigan and Xandros were scouting ahead of the rest, Dirnley and Jens limping far behind. Clearly the castle folk weren’t used to leaving their horses behind. Sigrun hung back near them, not entirely trusting the outsiders. Thora was walking with Anders, keeping a worried eye out for Morrigan and Xandros. She knew they were hoping to find something new along the road that might give them more information about Flemeth’s destination. 

“Anders, am I doing the right thing?” she said suddenly. “Trusting Morrigan? Believing that she’s not feeding me some kind of line.”

The mage looked ahead thoughtfully. “I think you are,” he said at last. “I believe her. And you know me, I have faith in few women.” He laughed a little, as if it wasn’t true. 

Thora tried to laugh with him, but her eyes were clouded with worry. “I just don’t know,” she said. “I’m used to being sure.”

“I know,” he said simply, one large, warm hand dropping casually to her shoulder, reassuring her with the comforting gesture. She smiled up at him, grateful for the support.

Behind them, Alistair saw the affectionate moment, and his jaw clenched, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. What right did that … apostate have to be touching her? It should be him, Alistair, giving her comfort, walking with her, having the right to … touch. 

“Easy, there, boy,” Oghren grunted next to him. “Don’t go windin’ yourself up over things that aren’t your business anymore.”

“But— But he … I mean, I—“

“Uh-huh. If you could finish any one o’ them sentences, you might have somethin’. But you can’t, and you don’t.” The dwarf belched heavily, swigging some more out of his ever-present tankard. “So don’t go messin’ with things you can’t change.”

The words held a great deal of truth, Alistair thought, but he still wanted to knock the mage’s damn hand right off her shoulder.


	9. Why Can't This Be Love?

It was their first night in camp. The old campaigners were used to the routines—tents, water, firewood, campfire cooking—and Xandros spent enough time in the forests that he was comfortable with camping. Sometimes Thora thought he would have been happier joining the Dalish than in the Grey Wardens. 

Sigrun sat by the fireside, shivering. Despite all her years on the surface, she had never gotten used to being outdoors. Thora felt badly as she saw her fellow dwarf’s misery. If she hadn’t needed a second rogue, she’d have left Sigrun back at the Vigil. All right, she supposed she could have brought Nathaniel Howe, the sourpuss, but the trip was going to be uncomfortable enough without his constant sulking. He was far better left to bother Varel about the running of his family’s ancestral home. At least there he was marginally useful. 

She put a hand on Sigrun’s shoulder. “Are you all right, my friend?”

Sigrun nodded, but she was still shivering. Then, from the other side of her, a mug appeared. “Drink this, girl. Ya might still be cold, but you won’t sodding care.” Oghren’s laugh boomed across the campsite. Sigrun took the mug. She looked at it skeptically for a moment—they all knew about Oghren’s ales—then tilted it up and downed the contents. She coughed for a moment, but seemed less miserable.

Oghren took a swig himself. “Ah, that’s good for what ails ya. Ha! Ya hear me? Good for what ‘ale’’s ya?” Sigrun giggled and Thora shook her head. Puns already? They’d barely set up camp. It was going to be a long night. “Hey!” Oghren called suddenly across the camp. “Yeah, you! Ya big barrel o’ stout!” Jens looked puzzled, although Oghren was clearly talking to him. “Ha!” said Oghren again. “Barrel o’ stout!” Sigrun giggled again, more loudly, and Thora groaned. The puns were going downhill fast. Jens came across the camp and Oghren shoved a mug into the giant man’s hand. “Might as well start drinkin’ now, boy. It’s gonna be a long campaign.” That Jens got. He tipped the mug back, draining it, then belched loudly enough to make even Oghren happy and held out the mug for more. “That’s the ticket, boy! Drink up!” Oghren poured another round.

Thora just hoped they wouldn’t run out of ale on the first night.

She left the three of them drinking by the fire. Jens seemed sturdy enough to handle the dwarven ale, Thora thought, but of course tomorrow’s hangover would tell the real tale.

Morrigan was at her usual separate fire, and Thora thought she saw Xandros’s shadow over there, as well. The elf seemed to feel remarkably comfortable with the witch, more than he often seemed to feel with the rest of the Wardens. She just hoped he knew what he was doing … and that time and motherhood had softened Morrigan somewhat. Thora made a mental note to check in with both of them at some point.

Alistair had been assigned to first watch. She stood for a moment, trying to separate the feeling of him from that of the rest of the Grey Wardens. For whatever reason, he and Anawyn felt different to her. Ah, there she had it—he was in the woods to the north, circling the camp’s perimeter. It was Dirnley’s night to clean up from the dinner, and he was doing so rather sullenly. Dirnley clearly wasn’t a fan of outdoor living, which led Thora to wonder what he was doing there. She knew he was exceedingly devoted to the king and queen, but this seemed above the call of duty. And she didn’t like the way he seemed to be watching her. She’d have to ask Sigrun to keep an eye on him.

That just left Anders. The mage had cooked tonight—a surprisingly tasty meal of squirrel and ground vegetables. Anders must have learned a few things about camping during his many escapes from the Circle Tower, she thought. But he’d disappeared after dinner, presumably to his tent. 

Thora ducked into her own tent, desperately missing the privacy of her rooms. Camping was too much like Orzammar in that respect—everyone knew everything that was going on. She started to unbuckle her armor, but was startled when a light flared in the tent. And there was her missing mage, sitting comfortably cross-legged on her bedroll, his grin cheeky as always. She must be tired, not to have sensed him there.

“I should have known you’d be in here,” she said. “What can I do for you, Anders?”

“I think the question is what I can do for you.”

“No games tonight,” she said. “I’m too tired. What are you doing in here?”

“Are you all right? It’s been a long day.”

“It has,” Thora agreed. She shrugged. “I’m as expected. I don’t feel that much closer to finding my daughter, I’m back living in tents, I’m following a woman who may or may not be trustworthy and at the very least knows things she’ll never tell me, and I’m doing it all in the company—“ She stopped, feeling her longing for Alistair like a second skin, and shivered.

Anders’s brown eyes darkened at what she didn’t say. He stood, filling the tent with his presence, his broad shoulders nearly blocking the light from the lantern that swung from the tent-pole. “I wish you would let me share some of those burdens,” he said.

Thora had thought they’d been over all this, years ago. “I do, too,” she said. “But I can’t.”

“You could,” he whispered huskily, taking a step toward her, one broad hand gently catching her chin and lifting it. “If you would let yourself.” And then his lips came down on hers, warm and soft and tender.

For a moment she let it happen, wishing that it could be this easy, that her scarred heart could yield itself to this man who cared for her so generously. But then her skin prickled as she felt Alistair’s movement around the perimeter of the camp. She knew without a doubt that if it was Alistair here in the tent, she would not have felt any other man. And could she offer Anders less than that, let him hope for something she couldn’t give? She stepped back, her hands closing on his forearms and pushing him away. “Anders,” she said, her voice sorrowful.

“By the stained panties of Andraste,” he swore, “why are you so bent on being miserable?”

Her eyes flashing, Thora looked up at him. “You—and Felsi and Leliana, and the whole sodding bunch of Wardens, it seems—all appear to think I must be miserable because I’m not involved with someone. But you don’t know me as well as you seem to think you do. You don’t understand where I came from or who I am.” For a moment, she missed Wynne, wishing for the stalwart friend who had understood how duty would become her life and the job her love. “Growing up in Orzammar, I never dreamed of some handsome prince in a fairytale. I hoped that once the politically expedient marriage was made for me, I would be able to stand being in the same room with my prospective husband. When I was exiled and taken in by the Grey Wardens, my life stretched before me defined by my duty to the Wardens and the world, fighting darkspawn. Companionship was the most I looked to.”

“I think you overshot the mark a bit,” Anders said sulkily. 

“Alistair and how he made me feel was a treasured, startling gift,” she said. 

“But if you could feel that way once …” Anders began.

“A gift like that would lose something special if I expected to find it again. It will either happen or it won’t, but I cannot force it.” Thora sighed heavily. “Anders, you and I have been close friends for a long time. If I could feel that way about you—with you—I would. I care for you very much, but I don’t … I don’t love you, Anders.”

The mage’s shoulders slumped. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “I just thought being in this situation might have … changed your mind.”

“It was a good try,” she said, smiling at him tenderly.

“It was, wasn’t it?” he grinned, his good spirits returning, but she could see the shadow in his brown eyes.

They were silent for a moment, then Thora said, “Anders, are we … this isn’t going to keep coming up because he’s traveling with us, is it? Because that’s over, you know. He made his decision a long time ago. You don’t need to stake some kind of claim on me to protect me.”

Anders chuckled. “Since when have you ever needed protecting?” He reached out, ruffling her short hair. “We’re good,” he said. “You’re free to lead us in blissful solitude.”

“Er, thanks, I think,” she said, swatting at him. She hated to have her hair ruffled. “Out with you now. I have to get some sleep.”

He turned to go, but paused just before stepping out of the tent, looking back over his shoulder. “You know, he doesn’t deserve you. He never has.”

“No,” she said. “He deserves someone who could have moved on.”

Anders looked sharply at her, but didn’t protest. He stepped out of the tent, and she tied it closed behind him, wanting nothing more than to sleep and forget all of it.


	10. Heart & Soul

Anawyn sat in the long grass of the marsh, idly pulling grasses and braiding them. Cybele sat with her, watching with fascination as Anawyn’s hands created a crown of the braided grass. “Why do you do that?” Cybele asked. 

The other girl rarely spoke to Anawyn, and she grasped at the chance eagerly. “Because it’s fun,” she said. “Why don’t you try it?”

“But what is it good for?” Cybele asked, looking confused. 

“Play, I guess,” Anawyn said, surveying the braided crown and shrugging. She looked shyly into the other girl’s golden eyes. “I like to pretend to be a real princess.”

“Why?”

Anawyn looked around for Granny. She didn’t like it when the girls (usually Anawyn) talked about their real lives, saying it was bad for their training. Anawyn leaned forward, whispering to Cybele. “You see, I’m kind of a princess, twice, but not really.”

Cybele was intrigued despite herself. “What do you mean?”

“My father is the king, so I’m sort of a princess in the human kingdom. Only I’m not, because my mother and father aren’t married and my mother’s a dwarf. And my mother was a princess in Orzammar, that’s the dwarf kingdom, so that should mean I’m a princess, but it doesn’t because … well, I don’t really understand why not. My mother tried to explain it once, but I couldn’t follow it.”

Cybele thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know who my father is,” she offered. “My mother says I look like him, though.”

“My mother says I look like my father, too!” The two girls smiled at each other for a moment, pleased to have found some common ground.

“Your mother’s a dwarf?” Cybele asked. When Anawyn nodded, Cybele said, “I’ve only met a couple of dwarves. They were hairy, ugly men. Scary.”

“My Uncle Oghren is like that, but he’s funny, too. My mother’s very pretty. But she can be scary when she gets mad. She’s in charge of a lot of people, though, so she has to be that way.” 

“My mother’s scary when she gets mad, too.” Cybele shivered, but didn’t elaborate.

Anawyn looked up, toward the tumble-down shack in the midst of the marsh. Granny was walking around it, seeming to survey the place. Every once in a while she’d stop and mutter some words, tracing what looked like runes in the air. Circles swirled on the ground where she’d been, circles that looked as though they were only held in check by the force of Granny’s will. “Do you think she can teach us to do that?” Anawyn whispered.

“I don’t know. My mother said some magic wasn’t for young girls, but Granny … seems to think differently.” Cybele’s eyes were worried as she watched the older woman.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Anawyn asked. Cybele only shrugged. “I miss my mother,” Anawyn said sadly.

“Me, too,” said the other girl. They sat quietly for a moment before Cybele plucked a few long grasses, holding them out to the red-headed girl. “Will you teach me?” And they played with the grasses until Granny had finished what she was doing and was ready with their afternoon meal.


	11. I'm Not Ready to Make Nice

The second day on the march was a slow one. Thora had expected as much—none of them were used to this kind of activity, so sore muscles and tired feet would make it a long day. The two men from Denerim were in the worst shape. Jens seemed particularly slow, probably due to Oghren’s libations the night before. Thora assigned Sigrun to stay with the big man, since the little dwarf was in a similar condition. 

“Oghren,” she growled at her Second, “are you going to have my people in these straits every day?”

“Sodding dusters are soft,” he said. “Wynne could have downed twice that much and been out ahead of us the next day.” 

Thora laughed. “And taken the rest of us to task for not keeping up,” she agreed affectionately. 

“We’re stoppin’ at the Tower to see the old doxy, aren’t we?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course.” Thora looked forward to seeing her old friend, but not to telling her about Anawyn’s disappearance. It would break Wynne’s heart to know the little girl was in danger. She squared her shoulders against the sadness. With any luck, they’d have Anawyn back well before they went to the Circle Tower.

Looking away from Oghren, her eyes rested on Alistair, in front of her. The long legs, the strong back, the broad shoulders, the tanned back of his neck. He still took her breath away, her body reacting uncontrollably to his presence, remembering when all that had been hers. She gulped, trying to shove those feelings down inside her, locked up where they belonged. 

Oghren cleared his throat next to her, and she jumped. The other dwarf barely managed to hide his smirk, and Thora could tell he knew what she’d been thinking. She blushed up to her ears, and Oghren’s guffaw burst out. Thora punched him in the arm, which only made him laugh harder.

She was shaking her head when she heard Anders’s voice behind her. “What smutty things are you saying now, you dirty little dwarf?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Sparkle-fingers?” Oghren said, choking back his laughter with difficulty. 

“I’m sure whatever it is would sully my brain.”

“Dunno about your brain, but it might get your pretty dress messy.”

“Messy from you is a bit rich. That armor is so filthy, it might be crafted entirely out of old darkspawn blood.” 

Thora left them to it. The two men were actually quite close, although you’d never know it. She put on some speed, bypassing Alistair without a word, and caught up with Morrigan at the head of the group. Xandros was nowhere to be seen at the moment.

“Do we know where we’re going?” Thora asked without preamble.

“As well as may be expected.”

“You’ll pardon me if that answer doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

“It is as much of an answer as you often had,” Morrigan pointed out.

“My daughter’s future wasn’t at stake.”

“I believe if you consider it differently, it was.”

Thora looked at the mage for a moment, then snorted impatiently. “Don’t be so literal,” she said. “The stakes were different, and you know it.”

“As you know, we found no further trace of them yesterday, beyond what we had seen before.” Morrigan was silent for a moment. “It is my belief that she took them to the hut in the Wilds. She left many items there, and she will be looking for some of them.”

“How do you know?”

“I, too, have been back to the hut, and taken some of the things that were left. Long ago.”

“So Flemeth won’t find what she’s looking for?”

“Not all, no.”

“Will that make her angry?”

“With me. I do not believe she will take it out on the children.”

Thora studied the mage. “Are you sure?”

Morrigan’s silence was eloquent.

“I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get,” Thora sighed. “Morrigan?”

The mage raised an eyebrow.

“Not to change the subject, but Xandros is not to be trifled with, or you will have to deal with me.”

“I do not intend to … trifle … with anyone,” Morrigan said coldly. “Not until I have my child back. And might I suggest that you resolve your own entanglements before you concern yourself with mine?”

Thora thought of Anders in her tent last night, and Alistair, whose presence she could feel like a roaring fire at her back. “Point taken,” she sighed.

And as if he felt himself summoned, Alistair’s long legs brought him to her side. Morrigan melted away into the trees, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“I would think after all that’s happened, the two of you could stand to be in one another’s presence,” Thora murmured.

“You can expect to see that happen when the Waking Sea turns to boiling lava,” he said savagely. He was silent for a moment, then asked, “How do we know Morrigan is telling the truth? We could end up months from now in the midst of some scheme she’s cooked up.”

Thora shrugged helplessly. “I believe we have to trust her,” she said. “I believe we _can_ trust her.”

“It seems to me that the last time you asked me to trust Morrigan didn’t work out so well,” he said. “After all, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“I happen to feel that the part where I’m still alive, and the Archdemon isn’t, was a pretty rousing success,” Thora snapped. “Unless you don’t see it that way.”

Alistair blushed slightly, both because of what he had said and from the remembrance of that night in Redcliffe. He and Thora had spent that night together, after he had left Morrigan, so exhausted all they could do was cling together while they slept. He was filled with a longing to be with her like that again, just to hold her and find comfort in her arms again. But he knew, none better, how impossible that was. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he sighed.

Thora rounded on him, her eyes flashing with rage. “Always someone else’s responsibility, isn’t it, Alistair?” she said bitingly. Part of her knew that wasn’t fair—she was the Commander and had not allowed him to argue with her about letting Morrigan lead—but another part was well aware that if there was a leader to follow, Alistair always would. And then complain that nothing went his way. She simply didn’t have patience for it anymore. “Hasn’t being king taught you anything?” She ignored the flash of hurt in his eyes, and dropped back to walk with Oghren and Anders again, leaving him ahead of her, alone.


	12. A Little Less Talk and a Lot More Action

They were nearing the edge of the Brecilian Forest when the inevitable occurred. With six Grey Wardens in the party, they should have expected it, and yet none of them had.

Thora shivered suddenly, looking up at the sky to see if it was turning cloudy, but the sun was still shining brightly. Something was causing the hairs on her arms to rise, though. And then she realized—it had been years since she’d felt the sensation of approaching darkspawn, but still, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t identified it immediately. Her eyes caught Alistair’s, and she could see he had noticed it. The rest of the Grey Wardens were looking around, as well.

“Darkspawn!” she called. Immediately Anders and Morrigan drew to the rear of the party, and Xandros melted back into the trees, his bow drawn. Sigrun ranged herself near the mages, to cover them.

Oghren, Thora, and Alistair stood in a circle in the middle of the road, weapons at the ready. Dirnley watched all this preparation, drew his own sword, and stood beside his king. Jens took his place on the other side of the king.

The darkspawn swarmed out of the trees toward them. It was a fairly large band, she noticed, with two alphas, and there near the trees she noted a pair of emissaries starting their chants. Behind the emissaries, she could see a flash of red, the color of shirt usually worn by the sentient darkspawn. A Commander, she thought. Well, this would be fun. She caught Oghren’s eye and motioned her head toward the emissaries. He grinned widely, and the two of them broke off from the rest and ran toward the magic users. 

She saw the red-shirted darkspawn smile and stopped, looking around at her own magic users. Sure enough, there were several darkspawn heading straight for the mages. “Jens!” she shouted loudly. “Cover the mages!” She saw an arrow fly from the trees and take out a hurlock who was about to reach Morrigan. Dimly through the trees she could see Xandros nocking another arrow.

Quickly Thora took stock. Xandros’s position still looked secure—he was up in a tree and difficult to reach by blade or arrow. Sigrun and Jens were valiantly defending the mages. The big area-effect spells were out of the question, however. Both mages were being hard-pressed enough that the more intense spells kept getting interrupted. Alistair and Dirnley were back to back in the road, blades flashing. Alistair hadn’t lost any of his skills, she thought, trying not to admit to herself the exhilaration she felt at being in battle with him again. 

Oghren was hacking away at one of the emissaries, but it was slow going, with the other one casting healing spells again and again. She rushed at the second emissary, thrusting Duncan’s dagger toward his belly while she swung Maric’s sword with the other arm, sinking the blade deep into his tricep. Now that both darkspawn mages were under attack, Oghren was having a much easier time with his, and the emissaries were down in a fairly short amount of time. Thora glanced at Oghren, who had a couple of scrapes but was enjoying himself hugely. “Talking darkspawn,” she said. “In the trees.” She pointed. “Go get him!” Oghren charged through the trees like a bronto. She didn’t know if he’d be able to find the darkspawn leader, but it was a good chance.

Turning, she ran her eyes over the battlefield again. There were a couple of genlocks still standing, firing arrows at her team. She saw one of them fall, two arrows sticking out of him, and knew Xandros was still secure in his tree. Alistair was starting to tire, but his shield bash was as effective as ever. He knocked an alpha down with it, and his sword finished the darkspawn off. Dirnley was down, it looked like. Soft Denerim men! she scoffed to herself. Sigrun appeared to be down as well, but as Thora watched Anders cast a revival spell and Sigrun was back up, swaying a bit, but her blades still out. Jens doggedly swung his massive greatsword, ignoring several wounds that had his armor bright with blood. And Morrigan, unruffled, still stood, staff dancing in her hands, calmly casting. Thora took out the nearest genlock with a quick sweep of both blades, then moved into the fray to help take out the last of the hurlocks. 

As Alistair’s sword struck off the head of the final genlock archer, Oghren came staggering back through the woods, shaking his head. 

“Didn’t find him?” Thora asked.

“Nope. Guess we’ll be seein’ the soddin’ freak again,” Oghren gasped. 

“Commander?” Sigrun limped up to her. “Orders?”

“Stand down,” Thora said. “Let’s do something about all these injuries, shall we?”

Morrigan and Xandros were virtually unscathed. Thora, Anders, and Alistair had minor scrapes that barely needed tending to. Oghren and Jens were fine after a healing poultice or two. Sigrun and Dirnley, however, were both pretty badly injured and would require the mages’ care. Thora called a halt, and the able-bodied got to work setting up camp and healing the injured.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In Denerim, Dorothea’s lady-in-waiting brought in a message that had been delivered to her. Silently, she handed it to the queen. Dorothea ripped open the envelope, reading the message contained within. 

_Dear sister: We have set forth on the journey. On foot. If you should need to write to me, I believe we will be passing near Lothering at some point. Our travels look to take us some time, and I expect it will be a while before we return to Denerim. I hope your husband and his partner are not arguing as much as I have seen them do. I miss reading fairytales to your girls. I hope they weren’t too upset by the last one I told them, even though some people foolishly believe it is based upon a true story._

_I await your reply._

_Your devoted brother, Septimus_

The lady-in-waiting left the room as quietly as she had come. Dorothea snorted, looking pleased, and crumbled the letter. “Fools,” she said. “They all believe that ridiculous story about the Witch of the Wilds. But they’re arguing with each other, so that’s good. Or is it?” A frown crossed her face, and she sat down at her desk, retrieving a sheet of plain notepaper and scribbling madly.


	13. Sweet Child o' Mine

“Again,” Granny said patiently. Both the girls took the stance she had shown them, then focused carefully. A ball of flame shot up in Cybele’s hands, but all Anawyn got was smoke. She tried not to be sad that Cybele was always better than she was—after all, Cybele’s mother was a mage, and she’d been learning these spells since she could talk. But it was still frustrating that Cybele got it so much more easily. If only they could use weapons, Anawyn thought, she knew she could best the other girl in a duel.

“Anawyn, you are not concentrating.” Granny’s voice was sharp. “If you cannot focus, you cannot learn. A mage whose thoughts are all over the place is a danger to everyone.”

“I’m sorry.” Anawyn hung her head. “May I be excused for a moment, please?”

“Will you come back ready to learn?” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

At Granny’s nod, Anawyn, shoulders slumped in shame, walked off through the grasses a little way. Not too far—Granny got upset if the girls wandered too far away. Finding a fallen log, Anawyn sat down, propping her elbows on her knees. She missed her mother, missed her home, her father, Anders, Uncle Oghren and his family, everything. Sniffling, she dragged her sleeve across her nose.

Everyone was always harping on her to focus, it seemed. Her mother cut many of their training sessions short because Anawyn’s mind would wander as they sparred. Dennis often was impatient with her schoolwork because she couldn’t keep her thoughts on her books. Felsi got upset when Anawyn helped her cook because Anawyn couldn’t pay proper attention to measurements and timing. Even Anders and Oghren were sometimes short with her over her “fur-gathering,” as Oghren called it. The only one who had never gotten upset with her about her lack of focus was her father. Anawyn closed her eyes and imagined him sitting with her on the log, his strong arm around her shoulders, his lovely voice talking to her. 

_“Father, did you ever get in trouble for not paying attention?” The small Anawyn was smarting from a dressing-down her mother had given her. “Toy daggers they may be,” the Commander had said, “but if you drop your guard like that, they may as well be real.”_

_Father laughed. “Like you wouldn’t believe. In the Chantry, I was sent to wash dishes all the time because I couldn’t concentrate on my studies.”_

_“Do you still?”_

_“Have trouble concentrating? Sometimes, yes, I do.” He looked sad suddenly. “But I remember the discipline I learned in the Chantry, and I can usually get through.”_

_“I thought you hated the Chantry.” Disliking the Chantry and the Templars was one of the few things Father and Anders seemed to have in common._

_“’Hate’ may be a bit strong,” Father said. “Well, then again … I didn’t want to be there, so I did hate it, but I learned some useful things despite my bad attitude.”_

_“What things?” She snuggled closer, wishing he would never leave._

_“I can wash a mean dish, for one thing.” He laughed, and Anawyn giggled along with him. Then, growing serious, he said, “The Chantry taught me to channel my thoughts and emotions in a single direction—something I’m not naturally good at, like you, my little love—and to concentrate on the tasks at hand. It was important when I was training to be a Templar, and it’s just as important when I fight.”_

_“Is it important now that you’re king?”_

_He grinned. “I need it even more as king. I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, leaning down and whispering right in her ear. “I like fighting a lot more than I like being king.”_

_“Why do you do it?”_

_Father shrugged, looking sad again. “Because the country needs me.”_

_“So you have to?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Anawyn frowned. “Does that mean you agree with Mother? That I need to focus more?”_

_“I learned a long time ago that I have little choice other than to agree with your mother,” Father said, sounding angry and sad all at once. “But in this case, I agree wholeheartedly. You can’t learn to be a good fighter, or a good student, or a good anything, if you don’t develop some discipline over that wayward mind of yours.”_

_“What do you do, when you’re in the middle of something and you want to think about other things?”_

_“Oh, you want practical advice, do you?” He tickled her in the ribs, and Anawyn giggled. “Right, then. When your mind has gone off thinking of something other than what you’re supposed to be doing, take a couple of deep breaths and turn your attention back to what you were looking at. If your mind wanders too far, try to take a break, go off by yourself for a moment, follow your thoughts wherever they were going, then go back to what you were doing. Those are my best suggestions, for now at least. As you get older, I’ll teach you some of the things the Chantry taught me. Would you like that?”_

_“Yes, please!” Anawyn climbed into his lap, throwing her arms around him. “I love you, Father.”_

_“And I you, little love.”_

Anawyn wiped her sleeve across her face again, drying her tears, and stood up, thanking her father silently for that lesson. She took a deep breath, then went back to Granny and Cybele. This time, her flame burned brightly.


	14. Whataya Want from Me

It was a quiet campfire that night. Sigrun and Dirnley lay recuperating in their tents, injuries healing, with Anders in devoted attention on them both. This seemed to make Dirnley uncomfortable—he was a devout Chantry follower, and wasn’t entirely pleased to be traveling with two apostates—but he was too weak to protest. Jens had taken to his bed early. His injuries weren’t as extensive as those of the other two, but he’d been wounded pretty heavily for all that.

Morrigan, of course, kept to herself by her own fire. Some things never changed, Alistair reflected. And Thora had taken first watch. If he knew her, she’d probably take second watch, too, spending her own strength instead of relying on someone else’s.

Alistair took a seat near the campfire and sat in silence with Oghren and Xandros. They were the two Grey Wardens he felt most comfortable with, given his history with Oghren and how closely he worked with Xandros now that the elf was the official Grey Warden liaison in Denerim. Xandros’s influence was a great help in Alistair’s continued focus on improving the lives of the Alienage elves. Bitterly Alistair thought to himself that he could well have ended up as one of them, a half-caste hanger-on in the Alienage, neither one thing nor the other. Instead here he was, the sodding king of Ferelden. Without thinking, he took the mug Oghren handed him, draining it. 

Oghren laughed as Alistair coughed. “Time was, boy, that woulda had you flat on your back.” He took the mug, refilled it from wherever he kept all the ale, then handed it back. “Drink up, ya nug-humper. Sodding darkspawn. Just like old times, eh?” He dug Alistair in the ribs. 

“Riiight,” Alistair said. “Just like them. Those charming old times, how I’ve missed them.” It would have been funnier if it wasn’t true, he thought. He took another swallow of the ale. Not bad, on the Oghren scale. He watched Anders emerge from Sigrun’s tent and look around the campfire before ducking into Dirnley’s. Looking for Thora, was he? Alistair thought. Thora treated Anders with an affection she didn’t show the rest of her team, and Alistair had seen how the mage ended up in Thora’s tent at the end of the day, hearing the man’s laughter night after night. Of course, Alistair had also seen Anders exiting the tent every night. Not that he’d been watching, of course. It was just something he’d noticed. He looked down at the mug of ale, wondering when it had gotten so empty. Oghren refilled it for him.

Xandros, on the other side of the fire, sat cleaning his knives. In general, drinking only made the elf more quiet, but now he leaned toward Oghren. “Is this wise? I don’t believe the Commander would be happy if she saw you feeding the king so much of that brew of yours.”

Oghren chuckled. “Sometimes ya gotta stir the pot a bit, get some action goin’.”

Raising a silvery eyebrow, Xandros shook his head. “My friend, this kind of action doesn’t seem healthy.” He looked at the king. “Your Majesty, I think I will retire.”

“Oh! Uh, sure, Xandrosh. Good idea. Sleep, good stuff.” Alistair stood up as well. “I b’lieve I will … take a moment.” He walked unsteadily off into the trees.

“See?” Oghren said. “Even three mugs o’ my best can’t get the duty-stick out o’ that blighter’s rear end. Got the wrong one drunk,” he grunted, tipping his own mug up deeply, wishing he had his wife and children with him right now. Felsi’d straighten out the whole lot of ‘em, he thought, and toppled over the log he was sitting on, snoring happily on the ground.

Xandros moved across the clearing toward the fire where the witch sat, brooding. She didn’t talk to him much, but he felt that his quiet presence was comforting to her.

Alistair came out of the trees, feeling a bit more steady. He caught sight of the mage again, the mage whose eyes constantly swept the camp looking for her. Well, not tonight, ser mage. Tonight the blond in her tent wasn’t going to be wearing a skirt, he thought. It felt more than a little illicit to be fumbling with the flaps of her tent, but everyone else was in bed, passed out, or otherwise occupied, so he thought he’d managed it without detection. Then he was in her tent, surrounded by her smell—still so familiar after all this time, the flowery, coppery scent that was just her. “What exactly is the plan here, Alishtair?” he asked himself, but he had no answer. 

Thora, true to Alistair’s expectations, had intended to take second watch, but Xandros emerged from the trees, gently urging her back to her tent. There was something in the elf’s green eyes that had her moving warily, expecting something … unpleasant.

Then she felt him, and she knew. For a moment, she contemplated turning tail, finding a nice thicket to sleep in like a wild animal. Anything to avoid whatever confrontation was coming. But another part of her quickened, her breathing coming more rapidly. It was Alistair, after all, and when it came right down to it she’d rather argue with Alistair than do just about anything with anyone else. 

She checked on the injured party members first. Anders slept on a bedroll near Sigrun, and the dwarf looked well. Dirnley was tossing and turning a bit more fitfully, but he also appeared to be on the mend.

With no further delaying tactics available, she turned toward her own tent. Before she’d even fully stepped in, he said, “Took you long enough.”

“Duties, you know,” she said briefly, trying to ignore the aching of her body as she saw him sitting there, sprawled in his adorable way. What would happen, she wondered, if she went over there and— But she knew what would happen. Without a doubt. And she wanted it. By all the Ancestors and the Stone itself, she wanted it. But in the morning, nothing would have changed. She ran her hands over her face, trying to calm the fires raging within her. “What are you doing in here, Alistair?”

“Expecting shomeone else, were you?” he asked. The slight slur in his voice left her with no question as to the catalyst behind his presence there. 

“Oghren,” she growled. That dwarf would be getting a talking-to in the morning. 

“Oghren?” Alistair blinked. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “But … I thought …”

“No, I meant I’m going to kill Oghren tomorrow,” she snapped.

“Oh. Seems a bit drashtic,” he said.

Groaning, she cradled her head in her hands. “Alistair, what do you want? I’m exhausted, it’s been a long day, I want to go to bed.”

“It’s right here,” he said, pointing to the bedroll right next to him, his eyes taking on that dark fire that had always melted her. She drew in a sharp breath, and he stood up, a bit unsteadily, his body filling the tent, and her senses, in a way Anders’s had not. “Would it be so bad?” he said huskily, his voice making her knees weak.

“No,” she said, breathless. Then, stronger, “No. Not going to happen.”

“What? Are you waiting for your precious mage?” he growled.

Suddenly the whole thing was too much. “What business is it of yours?” she asked angrily, staring up at him.

He reached out, grasping her by the upper arms and shaking her. “Because you belong to me!” he cried, anger and frustration and longing and all the years of missing her frothing in his voice. “You belong to me,” he said again, more quietly, still holding her by the arms. 

“No, Alistair,” she said, though her body was crying a different word altogether. “No, I don’t. Not in a long, long time.”

“Why not?” 

“You know why. Because all it took was a few tears from her and you cast aside everything we had promised, everything we were to each other. Because this is the first time you’ve touched me in four years.”

“No, that can’t be true,” he scoffed.

“It is,” she said sadly, all too aware of the warm hands on her arms. “Remember last fall, we were walking on the parapets, talking about the possibility of reopening Kal’Hirol, and I tripped and fell and sprained my ankle. You wouldn’t even reach down a hand to help me up. You called for Anawyn, and she helped me back to my room. Not even a hand to help me up, Alistair! In years. And yet you still think you have some claim on me?” She bit down on the inside of her cheek. Hard. She would not cry. “Go back to your wife, Alistair, and see if what you got was worth what you gave up.”

He swallowed, taking his hands off her. “Do you— Don’t you love me anymore?” He knew exactly how pathetic the question sounded, but that didn’t make asking it any less imperative.

“Get out. And don’t think you can come in here uninvited again,” she said. White-faced, he turned toward the entrance. As he ducked through the flaps, she reached out, uncontrollably, wishing he would look back just once. But he didn’t.


	15. I Gotta Feeling

They had left the hut in the middle of the Wilds behind, passing through an old ruin, obviously the site of a battle at some time or another. Anawyn felt her spine tingle, and looked up to see a strange figure watching her. He was wearing a red shirt, and his face was blackened and twisted and … strange-looking. “Granny,” she whispered urgently. “Granny!”

Granny turned, looking first at Anawyn and then at the figure in the red shirt. “Do you know what that is?”

Anawyn looked again. The figure was just standing there, watching them. “Is it— Is it a darkspawn?”

Granny nodded as the girls stared, wide-eyed. 

“Will he attack us?” Cybele asked.

“No. I believe he is waiting for … someone else.” Granny smiled the kind of smile that gave Anawyn chills. Then Granny turned to her. “Did you sense him?”

“I think so,” Anawyn whispered. “It’s … a little bit like what it feels like when there’s a Grey Warden nearby.”

“Hm …” Granny said speculatively. “I had wondered if that would be the case.” She looked at Anawyn with a new interest.

“Because both my parents are Grey Wardens. That’s what Mother says.”

“Let’s go,” Granny said abruptly. 

They walked a long way. Often they were quiet, although sometimes Granny would teach them about herbs and berries to be found in the forests and fields they passed. When they met other people, both girls were silent. Granny said that if anyone found out that they were all mages, the Templars would come. Cybele knew a little about the Templars, a few things her mother had told her. Anawyn had heard many things about them, from Anders and from her father, and occasionally some of them came to the keep, looking for apostates. Anders usually tried to pick fights with the Templars, and Oghren usually had to pull him off them. 

On the road, they met a cheerful dwarven merchant. Granny didn’t seem as worried about him as she was about most travelers. She began quietly looking over the merchant’s stores, setting aside a few things to purchase.

Cybele stared at the man, and at his companion, a younger dwarf who smiled a lot and didn’t say much. She tugged on Anawyn’s arm. “They’re dwarves,” she whispered, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Of course. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know anything about dwarves. I— I think I’m afraid of them.”

“They’re nothing to be afraid of! Stick with me,” Anawyn said. “Remember, I’m half dwarf.”

“Oh, right,” Cybele said, with some relief. She reached for Anawyn’s hand, holding it tightly, but her wide golden eyes stared at the dwarves apprehensively.

“Anything I can offer you ladies today? Name’s Bodahn Feddic. And this is my son, Sandal. Say hello, boy.”

“Hello,” said the younger man, quietly. He seemed fascinated by Anawyn and kept staring at her, grinning broadly. 

While Granny wasn’t looking, Sandal slipped up to Anawyn and Cybele. Holding a finger to his lips, he whispered softly, “Enchantment?” Then he slipped something into Anawyn’s hand. She tucked it quickly away, sensing that he was offering her something special. When he saw the item disappear into her pocket, Sandal’s face lit up. “Enchantment!” he said brightly, and turned away. Anawyn couldn’t wait to look at what he’d given her, but it seemed like a secret, so she carefully kept her hand away from her pocket. Cybele was curious, too, but she was used to not asking too many questions. 

As Bodahn was wrapping up Granny’s purchases, he cheerfully chattered on. Anawyn didn’t pay much attention until he spoke directly to her. “See anyone interesting on the roads, miss? Lots of people out traveling in this fine weather. Why, I hear the king himself is traveling. Some kind of hush-hush mission, so I’m told.” 

Anawyn’s face lit up. Her father traveling? Out of Denerim? Maybe she’d see him!

Bodahn saw the excitement but misunderstood. “It is exciting. He’s a good man, our king. I knew him, you know. A long time ago. Him and the Hero of Ferelden.” He looked at Anawyn strangely. “You know—“

“We’ll be going now, thank you.” Granny shoved her packages into her bag and, taking the girls by the arms, hustled them away. Bodahn stood looking after them, scratching his head.

Eventually they found themselves on the edge of Lake Calenhad. The mage tower rose up in the center of the lake, tall and imposing. 

“Look there, children,” Granny said darkly. “That is where people with our skills and talents allow themselves to be locked away their entire lives. Most of them never leave that little island, and their talents and everything they learn go to waste because they are never allowed to use what they can do.” She chuckled. “Except occasionally in times of war.”

“My parents’ friend Wynne was from the Tower,” Anawyn said softly. “I’m named for her. She traveled with my parents during the Blight, and she delivered me when I was born. Mother says Wynne was never content to sit still in the Tower.”

“A few mages do find ways to leave,” Granny admitted. “But the vast majority do not. Can you imagine? Your whole life inside the Tower, in the middle of the lake?”

Cybele, whose entire life had been spent in freedom and seclusion, more in the world of animals than that of men, shuddered. “Will you teach us to defend ourselves, if the Templars come?”

“Of course.”

Anawyn stared at the Tower. She knew Wynne was living there now, but she knew better than to ask Granny if they could visit. 

They camped there by the lake, and in the quiet seclusion, Granny set Anawyn to practicing her fire spells while she worked separately with Cybele on shape-shifting. Anawyn thought it would be exciting to be an animal or a fish, but Granny didn’t think she was ready to learn those skills. She formed fire balls for a long time, then selected a rock as a target and threw flame blasts at it. After a while she was bored and felt she had practiced enough. Looking around, she didn’t see Granny and Cybele, or any animals that might be them. She sat down by the shore and slipped her hand into her pocket, drawing out what Sandal had given her. It was a ring, covered in runes. It looked and felt powerful. Anawyn wondered what it did. She decided it probably wasn’t safe to show it to Granny, who might disapprove of her taking a gift from a strange man, so she tucked it into a small pocket in her pack that buttoned closed. Then she sat, quietly waiting for the others, wondering what was happening at the keep far away and what her mother was doing.


	16. You Learn

It was still relatively early in the day, but it felt like they’d been walking forever. Thora was constantly aware of Alistair’s sad eyes on her, and exhausted from a largely sleepless night. She knew she’d been hard on him, and probably unfair, but what was he thinking? That somehow being on the road together erased all the rules and set them back to the beginning? She’d had to not just close the door, but slam it firmly, or the opportunity would have just lain there, taunting both of them. While she thought of it, she dropped back to walk with Oghren, who chuckled. 

“Like yer surprise, missy?”

“Oghren, if you ever do that again, I’ll send you back to the Vigil. You’ll miss all the fighting from here on out. And think what Felsi’ll say. She’ll probably close the mossy cavern to you for a month.”

He stared at her, then burst into a howl of laughter. “Been workin’ on that one, have ya? I was just havin’ a little fun with you and the blighter.”

“You and your evil brews stay away from him. The situation doesn’t need your help.” She looked over at the dwarf, not liking the twinkle in his eye. “And don’t even think about trying it on me. I’m onto your tricks.” She walked on ahead, leaving him to mutter “soddin’ spoilsport” into his mug.

Alistair watched the interaction between the two dwarves, and had a pretty fair idea of how the conversation went. The way his head was pounding, he didn’t think Oghren needed to be warned about plying him with alcohol—he hoped he’d have the good sense to stay away from Oghren’s concoctions all on his own. Truth be told, even with the impetus of Oghren’s secret weapon, he didn’t know why he had gone to her tent. Well, all right, he did know. Because he was tired of seeing someone else take his place, because even if there was no hope of kissing her or touching her he just wanted the right to spend time with her, and because he couldn’t keep sharing a camp with her without knowing exactly where he stood. He had expected substantially what happened—if she’d welcomed him with open arms, he’d have been shocked and a little dismayed, and he didn’t know if he’d have had the nerve to go through with it. Not after so many years of scrupulous fidelity. So while he was saddened by the way it had all gone, he wasn’t surprised. And even though he knew now what he couldn’t have, he still didn’t know what he wanted. Except for his head to stop feeling like someone had used it for target practice. Sodding Oghren! 

They were still a fair distance from the tumble-down hut in the Wilds when Thora called a halt on the road. She carefully surveyed her team. “Morrigan, let’s keep you back here. It’s likely to be safer.”

The mage looked displeased. “I have no wish to be left here like a bothersome child.”

“And I have no wish for—what might happen if your mother is still there,” Thora said meaningfully, catching herself before she revealed the secret of Flemeth’s longevity to the assembled company. She raised her eyebrows at Morrigan, who sighed and gave a brief nod of agreement. “All right, then, that’s settled. Oghren and Jens and Sigrun, you’ll stay here with Morrigan, just in case. Keep your eyes open. We don’t know what we’re likely to find.” Oghren grunted, never liking to miss a fight, and Jens and Sigrun nodded. Thora turned to the others. “Xandros, you’ll go in first, scouting. I’ll know if Anawyn is there, but I won’t have any way of knowing if the others are. Alistair, Anders, Dirnley, you’re with me.” Alistair and Anders looked at each other, bristling a bit, and Thora sighed impatiently. She had half a mind to slap them both upside the head. “Are we all clear?” There were nods all around.

Xandros moved forward first, stepping lightly across the marshes, and Thora and the others spread out a bit, following him at a cautious distance. They paused in a clump of trees within view of the little hut. Thora pulled at Alistair’s arm, looking up at him questioningly. He shook his head sadly, and she nodded, frowning. He couldn’t feel Anawyn in the hut, either. Thora had hoped to find their daughter here, but apparently Flemeth was way ahead of them. Literally.

She watched Xandros edge closer to the hut. Suddenly he froze in place, one hand lifted. He motioned her forward. 

“You three, stay here,” she whispered. She had a much smaller chance of being seen in the tall grasses than they did, given her stature. Coming up beside Xandros, she raised her eyebrows inquiringly. He pointed wordlessly to the circles swirling around near the hut, and her heart sank. Summoning circles. Breaks in the Fade where demons could come through. 

Thora ran a hand through her red hair, sighing in frustration. She contemplated not approaching the hut—but they needed to know if there were any clues to Flemeth’s next destination, or if the old woman and the girls had been here at all. Also, they couldn’t leave the summoning circles where they were. Some unwary Chasind fellow might come along and call forth all sorts of demons. 

She raised an arm, waving the others forward. “Anders, can you undo those circles?” she asked. 

He looked at them thoughtfully. “Yes, but only if the rest of you can keep the demons busy. I don’t look forward to a rage demon over my shoulder while I’m working.”

Thora took a deep breath. “All right. Xandros, cover Anders. Dirnley, go back and get the rest of the party. And quickly,” she snapped when the Captain of the Guard opened his mouth to protest. “The King will be perfectly fine here, as he has been in countless battles before. Get a move on.”

Looking irritated, Dirnley headed back toward where they had left the others.

The summoning circles they’d seen at Soldier’s Peak had remained dormant until someone came near. Thora had assumed these would be the same way, so she had Anders go ahead and begin, confident that she and Alistair could handle one or two demons. But as she watched, the circles began to move more quickly. Then she realized—as Anders chanted the spell that should close the first circle, all four circles were being activated. The burning form of a rage demon rose from each circle. Thora and Alistair went toward the demons, blades at the ready. Though neither of them expressed it, they both felt exhilarated and oddly content to be going into battle side-by-side once again.

Thora swung her sword into the burning flesh of the first demon, ducking the flaming appendage it tried to hit her with. Alistair shoved another one back with a shield bash, following up with his sword. Over Thora’s head, he thrust the sword into the first demon where the face would have been in a more humanoid form. 

As the rage demon in front of her disappeared in a shower of sparks, Thora heard an eerie moan. She cast a glance over her shoulder as a skeleton unearthed itself. It rose to its feet, shambling toward Anders. The mage’s hands were in the air as he chanted steadily, but she could see him glancing nervously around as more skeletons stalked out of the trees, beginning to form a circle around the mage. Thora’s heart sank. Flemeth was no fool. Instead, Thora had made one of herself, putting her team in danger, by underestimating the old woman. 

Xandros slung his bow over his shoulder, pulling his daggers, and took up position in front of Anders, but there was no way the rogue alone could defend Anders against the crowd of skeletons.

Thora shouted to get Alistair’s attention. He hacked at the demon in front of him, Duncan’s sword slicing easily through the flaming mass. Thora swept her blades in front of her, cleaving the demon in two. With the demons under control for the moment, they both ran back to engage the skeletons. The circles swirled behind them and, while everyone’s attention was on the skeletons, a horned purple figure rose from the farthest circle. The figure watched the fighting for a moment, then turned, sashaying off into the trees. 

Thora’s blades flashed in the sun as she chopped and hacked at the skeletons. Alistair was grunting as he held some of them back with his shield, and Xandros was circling around, daggers finding the skeletons’ vertebrae and severing them. The first circle was closed, but Anders couldn’t get started on the second one while the skeletons were pressing in. Frustrated, he cast Cone of Cold, catching Alistair in the ice as well. Xandros shattered a skeleton with a well-placed kick before Alistair thawed.

“Watch it, mage,” the King shouted through clenched teeth. Anders shrugged with a not-entirely-contrite grin. 

A mighty roar tore across the Wilds, and Thora laughed. “Incoming,” she called.

“Oghren,” Anders said. The dwarf moved pretty fast, despite his stature and his massive armor. A giant spider was accompanying him, and Jens and Sigrun brought up the rear. Behind them Thora could make out Dirnley, who appeared winded. She’d have to suggest to Alistair that Dirnley could use a more rigorous training regimen.

“Oghren, Sigrun, Jens, skeletons! Dirnley, Alistair—summoning circles. Xandros, with me. Anders and Morrigan—get those circles closed.” Thora drew back with Xandros, covering Morrigan and Anders as the mages began chanting in unison, holding the remaining skeletons back while Jens and the other two dwarves hewed their way through. Alistair headed forward to the circles, dealing with the demons as they emerged. He seemed barely winded, the light of battle shining in his eyes, glad to be back in the melee, where it was black and white—demons bad, must slay with sword. Dirnley, next to him, followed the King’s lead, his sword and shield moving with less energy but still effectively. 

At last, the circles were closed, the demons defeated, the opening to the Fade shut again. Panting, feeling the armor heavy on her shoulders, Thora called the group to her. Anders held Xandros in his strong arms, the elf bleeding from a nasty belly wound. Everyone else seemed in decent shape, barring minor injuries. “All right, let’s make camp. Somewhere that’s … not here,” Thora said, glancing at the hut with a shudder. Too many memories. She realized that she was standing in the same place where she had seen Alistair that day after Ostagar, his cheeks wet as he wept for the only family he’d ever known. Turning, she looked for him, and the haunted look in his eyes told her he was thinking of it as well. She wished desperately that she could remove the distance between them, offer him comfort. But he flushed and looked away, no doubt remembering what she’d said to him in her tent last night, and the moment passed. 

As everyone else worked to set up the camp, Anders laid Xandros gently on a bedroll, beginning the healing magic that would close the wound. Morrigan knelt next to the elf, offering what little healing she possessed, backing up Anders’s actions. The belly wound began to knit itself, and the elf slowly regained consciousness, opening his eyes to find a pair of golden ones staring down at him, the concern in them evident. As he focused on her face, however, the witch blinked, her eyes hooding once again, and stood up gracelessly. “’Tis well that you awake,” she said. “It would not do for us to lose our tracker at this stage of the journey.” Xandros’s eyes closed again as he drifted off under the effects of Anders’s healing poultice, feeling the soft, cool touch of her fingers against his face just as he lost consciousness.


	17. Drawn to the Fire

In the waning light of the day, Thora stood outside the hut. Morrigan had just completed an inventory based on the last time she had been there, which had been quite some time ago, it turned out. 

“Disappointing,” Morrigan said at last. Thora looked up at the mage, and saw there a starkness that made the single word seem completely inadequate. 

“Agreed,” Thora said in response. No more words were needed. Both women were disheartened and frightened, but neither was willing to give in to their emotions. “Where do we go next?” 

Morrigan sighed. She looked at Thora, then away.

“You must tell me. Whatever it is that your mother is planning, I need to know about it. I will put all the resources of the Grey Wardens, Orzammar, Ferelden, and anywhere else I have any influence at your disposal, but you have to tell me.” Her voice rose.

“You are right,” Morrigan said. “’Tis not something I know, but rather something I fear. This is why I do not wish to speak of it. But you are right, you must know.” She looked toward the hut again. “It is my belief that my mother is going to draw out the full power of the Old God. To do this, she needed certain active ingredients found only near this hut, things she planted here long ago that now grow wild, in addition to things stored here.”

“And then what?”

“She will need to find dragon bones. For potions.”

“To feed to Cybele?”

Morrigan nodded. 

“Is that what you were planning to do?”

“It was what was in my mother’s mind when she sent me with you in the first place.”

“So by helping you find your daughter, am I helping you to ‘draw out the full power of the Old God’?”

Morrigan’s golden eyes met Thora’s. “I am helping you find your daughter. A task you could not attempt without me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“At this moment, does it matter?”

Thora stared at the mage. “You know me well enough to know that it does. But I won’t press you right now. The important part is knowing where they’re going next.”

“Lake Calenhad.” At Thora’s inquiring look, Morrigan said, “The Circle Tower is built upon the bones of a long, long-dead dragon. It is the first of three she will need.”

“Very well. Thank you, Morrigan.” Thora debated asking further questions, but decided the mage had already been remarkably forthcoming … for her. Morrigan turned again to stare at the hut as Thora returned to the main campfire.

The camp was quiet that night. Everyone knew the children they were following weren’t at the hut, and no one knew what the next step in the plan would be. Dirnley had taken to his tent already, Anders was tending Xandros with Oghren’s ribald humor keeping them both company, and Jens and Sigrun were playing some kind of dice game.

Thora stood still for a moment, isolating the sensation of Alistair, and followed it. He would need to know what Morrigan had said.

She found him sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of a large pool. He didn’t move as she came up beside him, but his voice came out of the growing darkness, painfully. “Where’s our girl?”

“Not here.”

“I could tell that much, thank you,” he said. “Now do you see the folly in trusting Morrigan?”

Thora sighed, feeling drained and scared for her child. “No,” she said. “I see that we have no other choice.”

“How’s that?” he asked, outraged.

“Because Morrigan is the only one who has any chance of knowing where Flemeth is going, and why.”

“I take it she’s told you some kind of plausible tale?”

“She has.”

“And you swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker.”

“By the sodding Stone, Alistair,” Thora snapped, “if you don’t have faith in my skills as a leader, you can go back to Denerim and sit there waiting until I return with Anawyn.” 

“Why aren’t I sitting in Denerim?” 

Thora’s head whipped around to stare at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why did you bring me along on this quest? And why are you shutting me out now? In my office in the castle, it was ‘please, Alistair, I can’t do this without you,’ and now it’s ‘follow me, but don’t ask any questions, and certainly don’t try and talk to me’.” His fists clenched on his knees. “Thora, whatever else is or isn’t going on, those girls out there are my daughters, and both of them deserve better from me than to have me simply follow their mothers about blindly. I can help, if you’ll let me.”

In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to share these burdens with him, to sit down next to him, lean against those broad shoulders, and pour out her troubles. But— “Because I’m the one who lost her,” she said softly. “I’m the one who quarrelled with her and didn’t take her seriously. This is all my fault.” She started to turn away before her tenuous hold on herself broke, but he grabbed the wrist that was nearest to him, spinning her to face him. She stumbled, catching herself with her hands on his shoulders.

They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, their faces only inches apart. One of his hands raised to her hair, touching it lightly. “I don’t blame you,” he whispered. She felt his breath on her face, the warmth of him flowing over her, and the world contracted. Her hands tightened on his shoulders, and the next thing she knew she was straddling his lap, kissing him. Their hands tangled in each other’s hair, their mouths devouring each other, her breasts crushed against his chest. Thora hadn’t been celibate over the years—there had been visits to the Pearl, occasional lovers—but no one had ever tasted the way he did, or made her feel the way he did. Kissing him was like staggering out into the sunshine from an extended tour in the Deep Roads, letting the heat and light wash over her. She strained to get even closer to his warmth, feeling his hands leave her hair to move down her back, gripping her thighs.

And then, somewhere in the surrounding marsh, came a heavy sigh and the sound of someone moving.

They froze. Wordlessly, Thora pushed herself off him, rushing away into the darkness. Alistair sat there for a long time, shaking, until he thought he could get up without going after her to finish what they’d started. He couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through him, though. She still loved him! Whether he would act on that knowledge was a moral quagmire, but for now he clutched the realization to his heart, feeling an utterly inappropriate delight.


	18. Hazy Shade of Winter

Thora was lying on her side in the blankets, finally warm enough to sleep, when the tent flaps opened and Alistair came in.

“It’s cold enough out there to freeze the Maker’s blood,” he groused, unstrapping his armor. “Remind me what I did to deserve third watch?”

“I seem to recall someone putting snow down the back of my armor,” she said slowly.

“And for that I had to go out in the middle of the night to stand watch?” He dropped a piece of armor to the tent floor, hearing it clank. “I think it’s your obligation to warm me up,” he sulked.

Thora heaved a noisy sigh. “Well, I suppose. If I have to …” 

Alistair grinned into the darkness, but couldn’t shake the strange sense of something being wrong. Should it be this cold? 

“Alistair? Still there?”

“Yes, still here,” he said. “It’s just … I have the oddest feeling that it’s supposed to be spring.”

“Really?” she said. “The mind can play funny tricks when it’s half-frozen. Come to bed.”

Alistair shook his head, pushing the nagging feeling aside. “Don’t have to ask me twice,” he said. He moved the blankets aside, relishing the warmth underneath them and her soft body against his. She gave a blissful sigh, rolling toward him to get even closer. “Hmm,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “Someone missed me.”

“You have no idea.”

“Show me,” he whispered, and her mouth sought his. Alistair felt his passion rising, and with it an odd sense of urgency, as though he hadn’t touched her in a long time. Which was crazy, since it had only been a couple of hours. Still, he thought, they’d been a long couple of hours, and in the cold. He held her more tightly, one hand finding her breast. She moaned, leaning back to give him better access. He rubbed his thumb across her nipple, feeling the tremor that went through her. Bending his head, he took the nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. Thora gasped, her hands reaching up to hold on to his shoulders. “You did miss me,” he murmured against her. She gave a strangled whimper as his hand stroked down over her hip, finding the heat and wetness between her legs. “For a welcome like this, I might take third watch more often.”

“C-consider it a permanent assignment,” she said breathlessly. She reached up, pushing him over onto his back, and then climbed on top of him. There was a sense of desperation in her movements that distracted him momentarily. Then his breath caught in his throat as he felt the first contact of her heat against his erection, grinding just the slightest bit as she gave the most delightful little cry. He pushed up against her, but she slid away, her mouth nipping at his neck in just the right spot. 

Alistair closed his eyes, giving himself up to the pleasure of her mouth and hands working their way lovingly down his body. As her breasts brushed over his length, he moaned, reaching down to cup the back of her head in his hands, feeling the two smooth coils of braid—Wait, what? That was wrong. He knew that was wrong. Suddenly against the darkness the images flashed forward—the Archdemon, the coronation, Anawyn, Dorothea, little Duncan, Morrigan. “Oh, no. No no no,” he groaned, and his voice was sharp with all the years of disappointment he had somehow forgotten and with the agony of unslaked desire. 

Unwillingly, he pushed her head away from him, sitting up. “Maker’s blood, we’re in the Fade. And I really, really don’t want to wake up,” he said. She didn’t say anything. “I suppose you’re going to be pretty mad about this,” he began, then something struck him. “Wait, you’re a dwarf. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“No.” She sighed heavily, clasping her arms over her chest to keep from reaching for him.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he said. He didn’t know whether to be angry that she played along with the vision without telling him or happy that she missed him so much she was willing to pretend. 

“No,” Thora said. “At least, I thought something was wrong, but …” She hadn’t wanted to pursue the idea. Not with him in her arms, making those sounds he made. A soft whimper escaped her.

Alistair shuddered. That sound, her scent, her nearness, all so intoxicating. He wanted to drag her back to him, kiss her until they both forgot this wasn’t real. “So,” he said instead, “trapped here by a demon, you think?”

“Probably. Most likely a desire demon.” She muttered something under her breath that sounded like “easy targets”.

“You think it was watching us last night?” Heat rushed through his body all over again at the memory of her frenzied kisses—and in the real world, too. He was going to be in so much trouble if they didn’t find Anawyn soon.

“Yes,” Thora sighed, getting up. She searched the tent for her armor. “Well, are you just going to sit there, or are you going to come and help me fight this thing?”

“I was thinking maybe you could come back here,” he said huskily, staying put. “We’re in the Fade, after all. No one would know.”

“We would know.”

“It’s no different than it would have been a few minutes ago,” Alistair said. 

“Yes, it is. Because now it would be a … choice. The wrong choice.” Thora bit her lip. Her body ached for him so badly it was painful, and she wanted nothing more than his arms around her, his body against—inside—hers. But it wouldn’t end here, not if they were both in their right minds, and she just couldn’t … if she gave in, just once, she’d never be able to resist him again.

“You are the most infuriating woman in all of Thedas, do you know that?” But Alistair got up, searching for the armor he had just taken off. He bumped into her in the darkness, and caught her arm, pulling her to him. He bent, his mouth close to her ear, his breath wafting over the sensitive shell. She shivered against him. “You’re fooling yourself if you think this isn’t going to happen. You and I both need it too much,” he whispered. “If it’s not now, it’ll just be some other time.” She was leaning in to him, letting his mouth get closer. Then she pulled away.

“Well, it’s not going to be now,” she said, her voice getting stronger as she spoke. “And the future will have to take care of itself.” He heard the scrape of steel as she picked up her blades. “Let’s go kill us a Stone-damned demon.”


	19. Make Me Lose Control

When Thora and Alistair exited the tent, the illusion disappeared, and they were left with the twisted, surreal landscape of the Fade. Thora looked around, grimacing. “You people really come here when you dream? No wonder you’re all so prone to nightmares.”

“It’s not always like this,” he said, sulking. “In fact, it was much, much nicer just a few minutes ago.”

“Is there some point at which we’re going to get past this?” she asked, sighing in frustration. “Because if there is, maybe we could just get there.”

“Always so easy for you, isn’t it? Shut off your feelings, just like that. Duty, duty, duty. Has it never occurred to you that there might be more than that, if you’d just sodding bend a little?”

“No! Because there isn’t. Not and keep our honor.”

“You know, I feel quite honorable. I’ve been honorable till I’ve choked on it.” As he said it, Alistair realized how true it was. How many years of his shortened life had he given to an increasingly loveless marriage, to a woman who didn’t trust him and, despite his best efforts, didn’t even seem to like him? Savagely, he snapped, “You can leave my honor out of it, thank you.”

“Fine! My honor, then.” Thora rounded on him, mouth open to yell at him again, when a soft, purring voice came from the hillock to her left.

“Such a shame. Desire denied turns to anger, you know. But there is a way to resolve that.” The horned purple creature sauntered toward them, the tassels attached to her breasts swaying. “I didn’t bring you here to watch you fight. Such beautiful passion going completely to waste.”

“Honestly,” Thora groaned, “all I want is to find my daughter and go home where everything is nice and uncomplicated.”

“But that’s not really all you want, is it? And you were doing so well,” the desire demon pouted. “In that tent, together. I was quite moved,” she said, her hands stroking down her own body. As they moved between her legs, she threw her head back, catching her lower lip in her teeth.

“Eww,” Thora said, fighting the desire the demon emanated, but Alistair’s face was flushed and he licked his lips, watching as the demon fondled herself. “Hey! Snap out of it.” She smacked him on the arm.

He shrugged, looking only a little abashed. His blood still pulsed wildly in his veins as he remembered the feel of Thora’s body against him, and it was nearly impossible to think of anything other than the throbbing that clamored for release.

“If you leave a man’s passions rampant,” the desire demon whispered, moving her hips around in a little circle, “you run the risk that those passions may turn elsewhere.” She sauntered toward Alistair, tracing a single finger down his armor-clad chest, purring as a small moan escaped him.

“Can we just fight now?” Thora snapped impatiently.

“Fight? Is that what you truly desire?” The demon sashayed toward Thora now. She leaned her head down, cooing in Thora’s ear. “Let yourself admit to what you want.” Thora felt the wave of desire wash over her with the demon’s breath. She swallowed, trying to think of supply inventories, Orzammar legal code, Dorothea—anything unpleasant enough to get her mind off the the enchanted arousal the demon was generating and her own desperate desire to rip the armor off the all-too-willing man she loved.

“You overestimate yourself, demon,” she said at last, with difficulty. “Women—and demons—don’t interest me.”

“I know what does interest you,” the demon said. 

“Do you think it would mean anything if it came from you?” Thora stood to her full height, which was still significantly shorter than that of the demon, and glared.

The demon rolled her eyes. “Very well. If this is what you wish,” and she snapped her fingers. Three rage demons rose from the ground around Thora, and she drew her blades, slashing out at them, panting with the effort. When the first one exploded, sparks flying, Thora felt the pain as one of the others burned through the back of her armor. It was then that she realized she was alone in the fight. Looking around, she saw Alistair with his arms around the desire demon as she writhed against him, her mouth at his neck.

That man has the self-control of a nug, Thora thought, grinding her teeth, torn between her irritation at how easily he was allowing himself to be affected and her longing to push the demon aside and have it be her own actions putting that look on his face. Despite the searing pain in her back, Thora struck out at the rage demons in a whirlwind, taking one out. She caught the other with her dagger, finishing him off, then went up behind the desire demon, shoving the dagger between her ribs and twisting it. The desire demon screamed, arching backwards in pain, before collapsing to the ground.

Alistair cleared his throat, looking shame-faced. “Well, what took you so long? I was … keeping her distracted.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Thora asked, feeling somewhat amused now that the fighting was over. “Because it looked like …”

“This?” he said, and he reached out, catching her by the arms before she could move, and lifted her to him. The endless sensual onslaughts of the night were too much, finally. Thora wound her arms around his neck, returning his kiss feverishly …

And in separate tents in the camp, two very frustrated people woke up in sweaty tangles of blankets, alone. Thora groaned, curling up on her side. It was going to be a long campaign. Alistair folded his arms above his head, staring up at the tent pole and looking determined.


	20. You've Got a Friend

Anawyn straightened from her stance as she and Cybele heard Granny calling for them. They went back to the campsite, where Granny had been preparing their lunch. The girls smiled eagerly at the sight of the cheese Granny had laid out. It was a rare luxury, one they both loved.

As Anawyn swallowed her first big bite, she could taste that strange aftertaste Granny’s cheese always seemed to have. She chewed the second bite slowly, thoughtfully. It occurred to her that after Granny fed them cheese, she and Cybele always got so sleepy that they went straight to bed. She wondered where Granny was getting the cheese from—maybe there was something wrong with it? Her mother never trusted cheese or milk. She said it spoiled too easily. Anawyn had never heard of bad cheese making people sleepy, but she supposed it could happen.

“Anawyn, you look quite thoughtful,” Granny said sharply. “Are you feeling well?”

Hastily, Anawyn swallowed the bite of cheese. “Just … a little sleepy, Granny,” she said, wondering if she should mention the sleepiness-cheese connection. Granny seemed nervous and impatient, though, so she didn’t think it was a good idea. Maybe later. 

Granny nodded. “Perhaps you should both take a nap.”

Cybele was yawning widely, and Anawyn followed her example. She wasn’t as heavily exhausted as usual—maybe because she hadn’t had very much of her cheese, she speculated—but lying down did sound nice. 

After a few minutes Cybele was asleep, but Anawyn took a while, lying drowsily wrapped in her blankets. Granny stayed by the fire, cleaning up the remnants of lunch. Afterward, she came over to the blankets. She bent to look at Cybele, nodding when she found the little girl fast asleep. When she came over to Anawyn and found her still awake, Granny was annoyed, but tried to hide it. “You need to be asleep, young lady,” she said. 

“I’m sorry, Granny,” Anawyn said, seeing something in the depths of the old woman’s eyes that made her nervous. “I’ll … try harder.”

“Do that,” Granny snapped, her mouth turning downward in impatience.

Anawyn closed her eyes, focusing on falling asleep. She was nearly there when she heard a small splashing sound. Opening her eyes, she looked up to see Granny, completely naked, walking into the water. Just before her head ducked under the waves, Granny turned, looking at the shore and the two figures there. Quickly, Anawyn closed her eyes, sure that Granny didn’t want her to be awake, and when she opened them, Granny was gone. Anawyn watched for a long time, but Granny didn’t reappear. Maybe she’d become a fish, Anawyn thought excitedly. 

She heard a thrashing from the other bedroll. Cybele occasionally had nightmares, as did Anawyn herself. Her mother had said that her nightmares were part of the Grey Warden blood she had, and over time Anawyn had learned to block them out, at least some of the time. Cybele didn’t seem to know how to do that. Usually when Cybele had nightmares, Granny went to her. Automatically, Anawyn’s gaze went back to the water, but there were no ripples. She got up out of her blankets and went over to the other girl, laying her hand on Cybele’s shoulder.

Cybele sat up with a cry, then buried her face in her hands. Anawyn sat down next to her, putting her arm around Cybele. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.

Face buried in her hands, Cybele sobbed for a few moments, calming at last. “I have the same dream all the time,” she said quietly, still hiccupping.

“What is it?”

“I dream I’m a dragon. There are all these strange, twisted creatures around me, bowing down, doing my bidding, and I’m talking to them. But in a language I can’t … quite … understand. Almost, but not quite.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Anawyn said. She gave Cybele’s shoulder a little squeeze.

“It’s the last part that’s so scary, though. In my dream, a woman comes up to me. She’s got short red hair, and she’s wearing black armor, and she’s screaming something. And she takes a sword, and there’s all this pain and bright light and then everything goes black.” Cybele shuddered. “That’s why I’m afraid of dwarves.”

“What do you mean?”

“The red-haired woman is a dwarf.”

Anawyn didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s only a dream, though. Just make sure you never learn how to change into a dragon, and you should be safe,” she said at last.

Cybele gave a watery chuckle.

“You know what’s funny?” Anawyn said after a minute. “My mother is a dwarf with short red hair, and she wears black armor. I hope someday when you meet her you won’t be scared of her. She’s … really wonderful.” Anawyn felt a wave of homesickness, wishing for her mother’s warm brown eyes and loving smile.

“I’m sure I could never be afraid of your mother,” Cybele said sleepily. She yawned. “I think maybe I’ll go back to sleep.”

“Okay. If you need anything, I’m right over here.”

“Thank you,” Cybele said. “Anawyn?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think … I’ve never had a friend.”

“Me, neither. Not my own age, anyway.”

“Can we be friends?”

“Of course,” Anawyn said, smiling at the other girl. Cybele smiled, too, her face transforming. Then the dark-haired girl curled up and went back to sleep. 

Anawyn wasn’t tired anymore. She tucked the blankets around the other girl, then went to sit in her own blankets, instinct telling her to try and sleep before Granny got back. She lay down, thinking  
of home.

Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, the Wardens would tell her stories. Her mother knew some good ones, and her father could always be counted on for an exciting tale. Anders did his best, as well, although his stories tended to have some things in them that scandalized Anawyn’s mother and that Anawyn didn’t quite understand. Occasionally, Uncle Oghren got stuck doing the story-telling, and that was never dull. 

_“I can’t sleep, Uncle Oghren. Tell me a story.”_

_Oghren went to the door, looking up and down the hallway. “Not a blasted soul around when you need one. Any other time, the keep’s crawlin’ with ‘em.” He came back. “Okay, little cave tick. What do you wanta hear about?”_

_“That’s not the way it goes, Uncle Oghren. You’re supposed to tell me the story, not the other way around.”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” he growled, sitting down. Something flaked off his boot and onto her carpet, but she didn’t want to look at it too closely. “Well … once there was this witch.”_

_“What was she like?”_

_“Sodding scary. Black hair and yellow eyes like a cat, and she wore this skimpy shirt-like thing. You could see under it sometimes, and she had the perkiest, ripest little—“ He stopped, clearing his throat. “At any rate. She traveled with us during the Blight, and by the Stone, did she hate your father. Two of ‘em used to pick at each other all day. Only one could get ‘em to stop was your mother. ‘Trenches, the only person scarier’n that witch was your mother. Maybe Wynne.” He stopped, staring off into space._

_“Uncle Oghren?”_

_“Yeah? Oh. Right. Heh. So this witch, Morrigan was her name, one day she gets good and mad at your dad—“_

_“Oghren!” The Commander stood in the doorway, arms folded, brown eyes flashing. “What kind of story is that for a little girl?”_

_Uncle Oghren actually blushed. “Er, sorry, Thora. Didn’t mean to … um, yeah. G’night, cave tick.” And he took off._

_“Mother?” Anawyn sat up in bed, and her mother came in and sat down on it. “Was that true, you used to travel with a witch?”_

_“Morrigan was an apostate mage. You know what that is, right? A mage who doesn’t live in the Tower or bow to the rule of the Chantry. The way Anders was before he came to us. Well, still is really, but legally now.”_

_“What’s the difference between an apostate and a witch? Or a mal—maleficar?” She struggled to get the word just right._

_Her mother sighed. “An apostate is a mage who doesn’t believe in the Chantry’s laws. Plain and simple. A maleficar is someone who uses blood magic. So instead of fire, or water, they use blood as a tool and a weapon.” Anawyn shivered, and her mother nodded. “Exactly. Not good. And a witch? That’s hard to say. I’ve only ever met two mages that I’d have called witch, Morrigan and her mother, and I think I’d have called them that because they had powers, knew spells, that I had never heard of before—or since—and that I found a little strange and sometimes disturbing.” She shivered, looking sad. “But without Morrigan … we wouldn’t all have survived the Blight.” Anawyn started to ask a question, but her mother shook her head. “No, that is not a story for you. Not now, and hopefully not ever.” Her mouth curved in a smile. “Now, with all this talk of witches, I’m sure you’re good and sleepy.”_

_“Well … not really.”_

_“You know what I like, when I’m not sleepy?”_

_“Fresh-baked cookies and cider?” They looked at each other and grinned. It was a favorite treat for both of them. “Race you!” Anawyn called, tossing the covers aside and bounding out of bed._

Anawyn pulled her blankets more tightly around herself. She wished she was back in the keep eating cookies with her mother. Granny didn’t seem to understand about Grey Warden appetites, and Anawyn never felt completely full. She wondered if her mother thought of Granny as a witch. Granny knew lots of spells Anawyn had never heard of. But would her mother have sent Anawyn off to train with a witch? Then something else occurred to her. Oghren had said the witch, Morrigan, had black hair and golden eyes. Like a cat, he’d said. Cybele had black hair and golden cat-like eyes, too. Sleepily, she thought how odd it would be if Cybele turned out to be Morrigan’s daughter. That would be something exciting to tell her mother when she got back to the Vigil. 

She was asleep when Granny’s grey head rose out of the water.


	21. Signed Sealed Delivered

Everyone else had fallen back somehow, so it was the three of them in front as they came across the stone walkway and turned down the steps. Pausing at the landing, they looked in front of them, and with a lopsided grin Alistair said, “Ah, Lothering. Pretty as a painting.” Only, unlike the last time he had said that, shortly after Ostagar and at the beginning of the Blight, it really was. Where there had been tents filled with miserable refugees, the sick and wounded everywhere they looked, now there were homes. Bustling businesses. Farmers selling fresh vegetables. 

Turning to Alistair, Thora spoke to him for the first time since she’d awakened from the Fade without him. “You did this, Your Majesty. If you ever needed proof of what you’ve done for your people, this is it.” 

“Yes,” drawled Morrigan. “It hardly seems possible, does it? That Alistair should have proven so … competent.”

“To think, it’s been whole minutes since you said anything insulting about me,” he said.

“’Tis a marvel, certainly, that you have given me so little to say.”

After a moment, his brow wrinkled. “Wait, did you just give me a compliment? You did! Morrigan gave me a compliment!”

“Must you act like such a buffoon about it?” 

Thora gave a long-suffering sigh. “You know, I live with an entire keep full of people who don’t annoy me as much as the two of you.”

The others were catching up now, and she let the group go on ahead. Alistair, moving forward with Dirnley reattached to his side, glanced back at her over his shoulder, and she could see in his eyes that for all the banter, he, too, remembered that spot—where they had stood when it became clear that Thora was to be the leader. If he had stepped up and taken the lead here, on this landing, where would they be today? 

Probably dead, she thought. She squared her shoulders and followed the rest of the group down into Lothering.

While everyone else had duties purchasing supplies, seeing to necessary repairs, or acquiring rooms at the inn, Alistair’s first stop was at the messenger office. One of his initiatives in his first years as monarch was to improve communication within Ferelden, and he had established messenger offices in every major town. By now there were offices in almost every village across the country, and they did a bustling business. He stepped into Lothering’s and found himself at the back of a long line. There were three windows where people could pick up or drop off messages, but only one was open. Alistair shook his head. It was the middle of the morning, surely they couldn’t be that understaffed! 

A few people turned to look curiously at him, but no one seemed to recognize him. After all, Alistair thought, who in their right mind would expect the King to come walking into town in the midst of a motley group of travellers, and then stand in line at the post office? After a ridiculous period of time in line he finally reached the open window. The bored clerk didn’t bother to look up at him. “How can I help you, ser?”

Alistair laid his hand with the heavy signet ring of state on the first finger on the counter. “I’m here to pick up the royal correspondence,” he said.  
The clerk started to turn automatically toward the shelves piled with letters and packages, but then snapped his head back around, his jaw dropping. “Y—Your Majesty!” he breathed, loud enough for the rest of the crowded office to hear him. Immediately there was a collective gasp, and everyone dropped to one knee. Maker’s blood! Alistair swore to himself. He had really hoped to avoid this kind of thing. Apparently he hadn’t thought it through well enough. 

“Everyone, please, rise,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “I’m … glad to be here, visiting Lothering. It’s been too long.”

There was a pleased hum, and as he turned back to the window he heard the people behind him still whispering excitedly. The clerk handed him a package with the royal seal. “Your correspondence, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you. While I’m here, can I also collect anything that’s come in for the Warden Commander?”

“The Hero of Ferelden is here, too?” The clerk’s eyes were nearly bugging out of his head.

“Er, yes?” Alistair could only hope this would mean Thora would be mobbed as well. Served her right. He collected her papers, and then asked for anything that had come in for Dirnley or Jens. There was no use in them wasting time standing in line. He hadn’t expected anything—he and Thora had both instructed their people to send copies of any correspondence to several different locations, but the others wouldn’t have known where to have mail sent—but there was one letter for Dirnley. From the queen’s lady-in-waiting, Susanna. That was odd, Alistair thought, turning the letter over in his hand. He hadn’t known there was anything going on between Dirnley and the lady-in-waiting. Maybe that’s why Dorothea had sent the captain of the guard along with him, to keep Dirnley away from the girl, he speculated. 

Alistair found Dirnley and Thora and Sigrun at the armorer’s, getting some things repaired. He handed Thora her papers, noticing that she flinched and glared at him when his hand brushed hers. He grinned at her, loving the way her eyes widened, though she tried to hide it. Oh, he was playing with fire, all right, but it felt too good to stop. 

Thora asked Sigrun to stay and wait for the armorer to finish the repairs he was working on, and stomped out to go back to the inn and look over her correspondence.

Alistair turned to leave as well, but then stopped short. “I nearly forgot, Dirnley, you got a letter.”

Dirnley’s face went white. “I— I did? Uh, thank you for picking it up for me.”

“You sly dog, I didn’t know you were keeping company with Susanna. You should have told me, I’d have come up with a reason to leave you home.” He nudged his captain of the guard in the ribs.

“Oh, uh, no, Sire, she’s my sister,” Dirnley said desperately. After all these years, he still wasn’t used to some of Alistair’s less noble-like behaviors, little things like picking up his subordinates’ messages instead of having them go pick up his, as was the natural way of things. 

“I see,” said Alistair. “Interesting. I’d have thought something like that would have come up before now,” he added casually. 

The blood seemed to turn to ice in Dirnley’s veins. He searched Alistair’s face for signs that the King was suspicious, but the easy smile remained. Dirnley breathed a sigh of relief. “She, um, she thought it would seem like favoritism if people knew.”

“Hm. It might, at that,” Alistair said, nodding. He turned and left the armorer’s, anxious to look at his correspondence, hoping Eamon had sent a long letter about what Duncan was up to. This journey required his presence, he was comfortable with that, but he missed the little boy terribly. He wondered who was reading to Duncan, training him with the tiny practice sword Alistair had given him, or taking him for horseback rides. 

Sigrun collected Thora’s repaired items and left the armorer’s as well, which left Dirnley alone. He tore open the letter, unfolding the single piece of stationery. 

_Dear brother Septimus,_ _I expect the arguing to continue. And the fairytale to end. I am sure you know how to help in both situations. Keep me aware of your movements._ _Susanna_

Dirnley sighed. He liked the King. He even liked the Commander. She seemed to know what she was doing, and had given no signs of any untoward intentions. But dragging Alistair all over the kingdom, far from his duties, daughter or no daughter, was foolish, dangerous, and irresponsible. And any dalliance between King and Commander would be adultery, and therefore displeasing to the Maker, not to mention the Queen. It was apparently Dirnley’s job to see to it that the King returned to Denerim where he belonged, with his honor intact. Dirnley squared his shoulders. He would do his best.


	22. All I Ask of You

Thora had just put her seal on a message for the keep when she heard a commotion outside. She opened the window, peering out to find a group of men building a long table outside. “You down there,” she called out. “Is this a feast day of some kind?”

One of the builders looked up. “Ah, it’s you, my lady. Er, Commander. It’s not every day Lothering hosts the King and the Hero of Ferelden. We’ll be showin’ you a proper celebration.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks, then,” she said. She hadn’t been expecting that. And she wasn’t sure she was in a particularly festive mood. The news from the Vigil was fine, but she missed it. Missed her duties, missed her office and training the younger Wardens. And Alistair was about to drive her crazy. He didn’t do anything, but he looked at her. Those looks. The ones that made her want all the things she couldn’t have. 

She left the room, heading down the hall, and ended up in front of Alistair’s door. Jens peered down at her. “I’m sorry, Commander,” he said. “I’m not authorized to let you see the King in his chamber.”

Frankly, Thora was relieved. The last thing she needed was to see Alistair alone in his room and she didn’t know what had possessed her to try it. More out of curiosity than anything else, she asked, “Not authorized by whom?”

Jens looked uncomfortable. “I’m … not authorized to say.”

Dorothea, then, somehow. As though this whole trip was engineered to get Alistair into bed. Come to think of it, that’s probably exactly what Dorothea thought. Thora sighed. “Thank you, Jens.”

“Any message for the King?”

“Just tell him the citizens of Lothering are arranging a feast. And I’ll expect him to make the speeches,” she said tartly.

Jens grinned. “Yes, ser.”

For lack of anywhere quieter to go, with all the bustle outside the inn, Thora went to the Chantry. She found a quiet corner, hoping that the last place anyone would look for a dwarf would be here in the shadows of Andraste’s sanctuary, and sank down on her knees. The concern for her daughter was wearing on her. She could push it aside for a time, knowing they were doing all they could to find her, knowing that Flemeth had no reason to harm Anawyn, but she desperately missed the little girl who brought so much sunshine to her life, and she worried for her smart, sensitive child. 

She didn’t notice as the Chantry door opened again behind her. Alistair spotted the small figure immediately, and he paused, watching her, not sure if his presence would be an intrusion. He’d heard her voice outside his room and followed her here, concerned by the slump in her shoulders and the air of sadness that hung around her.

_“Mother, do you believe in Andraste?” 4-year-old Anawyn was looking through a copy of the Chant as her father relaxed before a fire and her mother tried hard to look as though she was focusing on work._

_“What a question. I suppose I do,” Thora said. “At least, I believe there once lived a woman named Andraste who was, and is, very special to many people. She is certainly special to me.”_

_“Father, do you believe in Andraste?”_

_“Most definitely,” he said, thinking back to the snow-swept temple and the feeling of peace that had come over him as they stood together in front of the Maker’s bride.  
“But dwarves don’t say the Chant,” Anawyn said slowly._

_“No. Dwarves worship the Stone we came from. It’s where we get our strength. We’re all connected to it, and through it, to each other.”_

_“What about Paragons? Do you believe in those?”_

_Alistair laughed. “She has to believe in them. She is one, you know.”_

_“That’s right,” Anawyn breathed. Her brown eyes grew wide. Thora’s eyes, so like her daughter’s, were flat like stones as she looked at him. With a sigh Alistair thought that only a few months ago, she’d have smiled ruefully, and the joke would have been shared between them. Now, now that he’d taken off the amulet for Dorothea, there were no shared jokes. He understood that Thora felt hurt and betrayed, but didn’t she know how this constant rejection was tearing him apart?_

_Thora looked at Anawyn impatiently. “Yes, I’m a Paragon. But all it means is that I did something to improve the lives of the dwarves.”_

_“What did you do?”_

_Alistair reached up, scooping the little girl up into his lap. She cuddled close, the way her mother used to, and he wished with all his heart that he belonged here, that this was his only family. His beautiful girls, how he would spoil them. “Your mother, my little love, saved the world.” He looked into the small face before him, not wanting to see whatever was on Thora’s face right now._

_Anawyn’s eyes were round as saucers. “She must be very brave.”_

Remembering the little face, so like her father’s, turned to hers, Thora felt the dam shift, her eyes welling with tears. She didn’t feel very brave right now. Looking up at Andraste, she found herself wishing she knew some of the words to the Chant of Light, something that would express how much she needed peace and fortitude.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said a voice behind her, and a broad hand rested on her shoulder.

“Anders, did it ever occur to you that I came here to get away?”

He grinned. “It never occurred to me that you came here to get away from me.” He sank down next to her. “I didn’t think you believed in Andraste.”

“I do, actually.” She’d never told him what the Temple was like, although he knew she had been there. Anders’s presence had dried up the flood of tears that threatened. She was relieved, in part—when the dam burst, she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop crying. But in another way, she longed for the relief of tears, the release of the pressure building up inside her.

Alistair, lost in his own contemplation, hadn’t seen the mage until Anders had already gone up to Thora. She smiled wearily up at the other man, not spitting and clawing the way she would have if Alistair had interrupted her. Turning, he left the Chantry, feeling helpless. Unable to comfort Thora, unable to find his daughter and save her from whatever horrible fate Flemeth had in mind. He pictured the little girl in the hands of Flemeth and his fists clenched helplessly. What good was it being the King if you couldn’t help those you loved the most?

How long she and Anders stayed there, side by side in the quiet, Thora didn’t know. Eventually Sigrun came and found them. The dwarf’s hair was down around her shoulders and she was wearing a dress. Thora raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you in a dress, Sigrun.”

“You might never again, Commander.” Sigrun giggled.

The three of them left the Chantry, going out into the village where it appeared the feast was just getting started. A great cheer went up when Thora emerged from the Chantry. “The Hero of Ferelden!” someone shouted. Thora blushed to the roots of her red hair.

“Speech! Speech!” someone shouted. Thora looked around for Alistair. He was the sodding King, he ought to be the one giving the speeches. 

“The King!” someone called out, and Alistair was pushed to the Chantry steps. Ha! Served him right, Thora thought. “Speech from the King!”

“All right,” Alistair said, holding up a hand for quiet. He looked down at Thora, wanting to give her back some of the strength she so freely gave to others. “When we came to Lothering the first time, after the battle of Ostagar, despair weighed heavily on everyone’s heart. On mine, as well. Through the indomitable strength and determination of this woman, the Blight was ended and we have been enabled to return life to this nation. Without her, there would be no Ferelden. Ladies and gentlemen, Thora Aeducan, Commander of the Grey, Hero of Ferelden!” 

Thora frowned at him good-naturedly, and Alistair chuckled. She stepped forward. “Good people of Lothering! It does my heart good to see a bustling town here where there once was such misery, so many refugees, the town all but obliterated by the Blight. It is a testament to your strength and resilience that we stand here today in such a lively, thriving town!” When the cheers died down, she said, “Now, let’s eat!” to laughter and applause.

“I’ll get you for that, Your Majesty,” Thora grumbled to Alistair. He threw back his head and laughed, looking so young that Thora’s breath caught in her throat. She remembered spending hours on the march thinking of ways to make him laugh like that, and those tears stung her eyes again. As his laughter eased and he looked down at her, his eyes still warm with amusement, she looked away, afraid that hers would betray her. “I … think I’ll get some food,” she said hastily.

The feasting carried on until there was nothing more to eat, the Lothering townspeople awed by how much the Grey Wardens could pack away. And when the food was gone, the dancing began. Thora stayed firmly put on the sidelines. Nothing looked more ridiculous—or was more damaging to a dwarf Commander’s gravitas—than a dwarf dancing with a human. She smiled, noticing that Sigrun was demonstrating that very effect, dancing with Jens, giggling uncontrollably. The reason for the dress? Thora wondered. The dwarf and the giant had been thrown together quite a bit. She looked around for the rest of the party. Dirnley was nowhere to be seen, which concerned her. Oghren was having the time of his life, sitting in the midst of a circle of Lothering men, telling stories—tall tales, no doubt—of the Blight. Anders had found a local girl to practice his famed charm on. It seemed to be working, Thora thought in amusement, watching as the girl flushed under Anders’s attentions. The two of them melted into the darkness. Thora was glad to see it, hoping it was a sign that Anders was looking elsewhere for love. Where Morrigan and Xandros were, she didn’t know. Neither of them was particularly fond of crowds of people.

Hoping she could escape unobserved, Thora got up, stepping out of the light of the bonfire. She reached the perimeter of the crowd, and skirted around, heading for the door of the inn. She didn’t slow when she felt Alistair behind her, and he fell into step next to her.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Back to my room. Not in much of a celebrating mood.”

“It’s the dancing, isn’t it? You just don’t like it.”

“It tends to have a detrimental effect on a Commander’s dignity,” she agreed.

“Want some company?”

“Alistair, did you become unmarried at some point that I’m not aware of?”

“No.”

“Then what is this pursuit? It’ll end badly, we both know that. Can’t you just leave it alone?”

“Someone has a very dirty mind,” he said lightly. “I just thought you might want a shoulder. Or is that job only for the mage? His shoulders are quite broad. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Anders is my friend. That’s all he is,” she snapped.

“Is it?” Alistair put a hand on her arm, pulling her to a stop. “It’s bad enough that you’re fooling yourself with that lie, but you’re making a fool of him, as well.”

“I’ve never encouraged him!”

“Really. Because you disappear into your tent alone with him night after night—or your office, back at the Vigil. You consult him in matters regarding your child; you turn to him for help, support, advice, comfort. You treat him as a partner with one hand, while withholding your heart from him with the other.”

Thora’s jaw dropped and she stared up at Alistair. Could that be true? Despite how scrupulous she had always tried to be, had she been giving Anders the wrong idea all along? 

“You see it now, don’t you?” Alistair said softly. “And you see why I’m jealous of him until it eats me up inside. Because he has what I should have—your friendship, your trust—while you treat me with kid gloves, like some interloper, unwanted and unwelcome, whose only intent is on getting into your bed.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course not! I mean, that’s part of it, okay. Being near you makes me crazy. It always has. But being without you—completely without you, the way it’s been since before Duncan—is … impossible.” His voice rasped, catching on the last word. 

“What do you want, then, Alistair?” she asked hoarsely.

“I want what we had,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But I don’t know if I can, or should, ask for that. Or if it would ever be possible. Still, even if I never find myself in here again,” he said, one hand resting above her heart, “I have to be back in here.” His hand moved, tenderly touching her head. “I have to know what’s going on in there, to be part of our daughter’s life. Part of your life. Not just on visits, but in the decisions and the heartaches and … all of it.” 

“Oh,” she said in a small voice, feeling the tears threatening again. “Well … um, that sounds reasonable.”

“Can you do it?” His voice was gentle, tugging at parts of her she’d thought long buried.

“I can try.”

They were standing just outside the inn door. As Alistair removed his hand from her head, the door opened, and Dirnley’s head popped out. “Ah, Your Majesty. There you are. I thought I heard voices.”

Stiffening, Alistair said, “I’m right here,” he said. “No need to worry about me.”

“I’m glad to see it. This … event has become rather rowdy.”

Looking around at the bonfire and the dancing, Alistair grinned. “Yes, parties can be like that. I see you’re not making merry, Dirnley. Writing back to your sister?”

“Oh, um, yes, Sire.”

“Tell her I said hello. Oh, Dirnley,” he said, as if he’d just thought of something, “I seem to have forgotten my cloak. It’s in my room … somewhere. Would you mind fetching it for me? The air has grown rather chilly.”

Glancing from Alistair to Thora, Dirnley said, “Of course, Your Majesty,” with only the slightest trace of hesitation. If it occurred to him that Alistair almost never asked someone else to get something he could just as easily get for himself, neither Alistair nor Thora could tell.

As Dirnley turned, going back into the inn, Thora nudged Alistair in the ribs. “Since when have you been so sensitive to the cold?”

Alistair held the door open, watching as Dirnley climbed the stairs, then leaned toward Thora, saying quietly, “Since I needed him out of the way for a moment. I picked up a letter for him today, from the castle.”

“A letter here? How did someone know where to write to him?”

“I don’t know. It appeared to come from Susanna, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting. Dirnley claims she’s his sister, but that’s never come up before. And they’ve both been in the castle almost as long as I have. I’d have known.”

“So you’re saying our friend Dirnley is here as a spy?”

Alistair nodded.

“That fits,” Thora said, and she told him about Jens turning her away from his door that afternoon. “I assume you didn’t give the orders that I wasn’t to be allowed in.”

“No,” Alistair said. “Hardly.” He winked, and she flushed. 

“Weren’t you supposed to stop doing that?”

“Oh, right. Of course. What was I thinking?” He grinned, looking completely unrepentant.

Shaking her head at him, Thora glanced back into the inn. “What are we going to do about Dirnley?”

“Keep an eye on him,” Alistair said. “Try not to be seen to be alone together, so he doesn’t have any ammunition.”

_Spies, now_ , Thora thought. Could this trip get any more complicated?


	23. Kiss of the Spider Woman

“And there she was, naked as a nug, tryin’ to pick up the bar o’ soap. I come up behind her an’ ‘Didja need some help with that?’, I ask,” Oghren was saying. He looked around the campfire, expecting some response, but it appeared the last of his listeners had either left or passed out, toppling off their chairs and snoring on the ground. “Stupid cloudheads,” he grumbled. “What kinda idiot sleeps on the ground?”

Oghren drained the last of the ale from his mug, his thoughts turning toward his wife and children back in Amaranthine. He and Felsi had argued fiercely before he came along with the Commander, Felsi accusing him of still pining away for Branka, he shouting back at her something about her tongue being sharp enough to cut rock. Underneath the bluster, though, he’d been pierced to the heart by the accusation. Not because it was unjust, but because he’d wondered suddenly if it were true. And Felsi had seen the momentary confusion, her eyes filling with tears she was too proud to shed.  
In the light of the dying fire, the answer was clear to Oghren. Branka was nothing but a memory, belonging to the dark of the ‘Roads, lost in the shadows of his past. Felsi, with her bright eyes and keen wit, his children in all their delightful innocence, those were his future. He put the mug down, walking on far steadier legs than usual into the inn, where he could write to her and tell her how completely he missed them all.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Jens hefted Sigrun onto his shoulder. The ale and the dancing had worn the little dwarf out, and the giant man grinned as he heard her faint snoring. Took a lot to fall asleep while slung across someone’s back like a sack of potatoes. It had been a long time since Jens had been able to spend time with someone as enthusiastic and eager for adventure as Sigrun. She reminded him of the little sisters he’d left behind when he left the farm in the Southron Hills to join the King’s army. A giant since his boyhood, Jens had spent most of his adolescence and young adulthood at the center of a swarm of small children, chief amongst them the sisters he missed so much. He assumed they were still out there, scraping by on the farm, maybe even old enough to think about marrying. Every month he dutifully sent along a portion of his pay, but since neither he nor anyone else in his family had ever learned to read or write, he could only hope that the money was reaching his family and that they were still there to use it. 

As Sigrun sighed in her sleep, shifting on his shoulder, he thought that once they had found the King’s daughter, he’d ask for a leave, his first, and go back to see the farm. Maybe he’d take Sigrun along, if the Commander would allow it. He’d like to show his new friend where he came from.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Emerging from the Chantry, Anders tried to shush the giggles of the girl he was with. Much as he enjoyed the experience of thumbing his nose at the institution that had hounded him his whole life, he didn’t think it would look good for the Wardens if it was found out that he’d had his way with the girl right there in front of Andraste.  
Truth be told, he’d had a difficult time concentrating, remembering that he had spent much of the afternoon sitting in front of that same statue with Thora. Try as he may, the girl in his arms just didn’t feel right. Too tall, too much hair, too many giggles. 

Looking up at the windows of the inn, as the local girl slipped away into the shadows, Anders thought bitterly of the King. After all this time, he was still the first person she’d run to when trouble came. She hadn’t turned to Anders, oh, no. Had to run straight off to Denerim to drag the man away from his wife, and now he was worming his way right back into Thora’s heart, with his charming smiles and … whatever it was women saw in him. All Anders saw was the arrogant bastard who had suddenly come back into their lives, just when Anders thought his own patience and loyalty was about to be rewarded, and now Anders was increasingly out in the cold, watching Thora’s brown eyes take on fire and softness for the King that they’d never had for him.

He flexed his fingers and for a moment the flames leaped up in the dying fire.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thora lay in her bed, tossing and turning. She couldn’t get Alistair’s words out of her mind. All these years she had prided herself on keeping the boundaries between herself and Anders clear … but was Alistair right? Was she treating Anders as her partner in every way but physically? It had been easier to push Alistair away entirely, too painful to allow any of their previous relationship to linger. Had she used Anders as a lever to pry herself away? As armor against her own longing? As a stopgap, holding Alistair’s place? She rolled under the covers, twisting them even further, burying her face in the pillow. Somehow she had to make this right, apologize to Anders and set him free. 

Meanwhile, there was Alistair, damnably omnipresent with his understanding but also his insistent pressure. Part of her had hoped that in close quarters she would see all the ways being king—being married to Dorothea, whispered her jealous brain—had changed him, all the ways he was inferior to her Alistair. Instead, she was seeing a depth to him, a confidence in his own abilities, a patience that she wasn’t used to. She wanted to go away with him behind closed doors and just talk, find out what he thought about things, get his opinions—consult with him, rely on him—in a way she didn’t think she would have been able to during the Blight. Once you added that to the humor that still lay just below the surface, the remarkably fine body that was only improving with age, and all the evidence that he still felt for her what she felt for him, it was a nearly irresistible package that was always just out of reach.  
Thora punched her pillow, restless now for an entirely different reason.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Several doors down, Dirnley sat at his desk, a piece of vellum open in front of him. He inked his pen, hesitantly setting it to the paper.

_Dear Susanna,  
It appears our next destination is near Lake Calenhad—a letter would probably best be sent to the docks near the Circle Tower. I cannot imagine they will miss the opportunity to visit the elderly mage. There has been little change since I last wrote to you. The end of the journey remains as far away as ever; the leaders continue to quarrel amongst themselves. I do not know when we will be returning to Denerim._

Dirnley looked at what he had written. Should he write to the Queen of the strange lightness he was seeing in the King as they moved away from Denerim? Of the Commander’s growing discomfort around and avoidance of the King? Of the way the King seemed aware of the Commander’s discomfort and went out of his way to irritate her? Those seemed like good things—anything that kept the King and Commander at odds should be—but the quarrels had changed tone. There was a heaviness, a tension, between them, that made Dirnley think the change in their relationship was not something the Queen wanted to hear. What could she do, anyway? 

Leaning back in his chair, Dirnley sighed. If anyone was going to put obstacles in between the King and the Commander, it would have to be him. Trying to decide what to do, he signed his name to the letter, folding the sheet of vellum and preparing it to be taken to the messenger office in the morning.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair was rereading the missive from Eamon regarding Duncan. The little boy was doing well, according to the Chancellor, although he missed his father. Crossing his feet on the desk, Alistair tilted his chair, balancing it on the back legs, thinking about his son and missing the bright brown eyes and constant stream of questions. Someday when this was all over, he wanted Duncan and Anawyn to meet—he was sure they would love each other. He only wished he had brought the little girl to the capitol sooner, even if Dorothea would have hit the roof had he done so.

He moved on to the next report, going back over everything Eamon had sent on the state of the kingdom. Apparently it was going pretty smoothly. Eamon didn’t seem to think Alistair’s presence was necessary in the capitol yet. As a matter of fact, he reported that the citizens seemed pleased that the King was out amongst them, studying the nation from within. Certainly Lothering’s reaction bore out that idea. 

Apparently Dorothea had tried to put her foot down once or twice on decisions Eamon was making, and had been quite sulky when her demands weren’t taken seriously. Alistair shook his head, wondering what had happened to the young woman he’d married. Had the change in her been his fault? He didn’t think so. He’d tried his best—been honest with her from the start, made a serious attempt to woo her in the early years of their relationship, done all he could to treat her the way he felt his wife and queen deserved. When Dorothea asked, he took off the amulet, a statement of his good faith and good intentions toward her, or so he’d thought. Then she’d gotten pregnant so quickly, and he had showered her with attention during the pregnancy. He’d even slowed the rate of his visits to Amaranthine so that Dorothea would know how important she and their child were to him. Dorothea had hated being pregnant—the restriction on her movements, the distortion of her body, the sensation of another being moving inside her belly. She’d made it clear that there would be no more children, that one impossible heir was enough. That was when the spitefulness toward Thora began to surface. Dorothea had never been a fan of his ex-lover, but after Duncan was born dislike had turned even more sour, and she’d started asking suspicious questions every time he came back from Amaranthine. Despite the jealousy, though, Dorothea had shown increasingly less interest in spending time with Alistair, as though he was a prize to be held on to, not a companion to be enjoyed. 

Closing his eyes, Alistair pictured Thora, her brown eyes snapping fire at him. As this journey spun longer, assuming Flemeth continued to evade their grasp, he and Thora would inevitably come together, he knew that. It was just a question of where and when. Somehow he couldn’t feel as guilty as he should for not trying harder to stay away from her. When he told Thora in the Fade that he’d been honorable enough, he’d meant it. Dorothea didn’t want him; Thora did. He’d done his duty to his country, marrying a human and producing an heir. Wasn’t it about time he got something he wanted? Especially when he knew there would be no long eternity in the Fade together. Since Thora was a dwarf, all they would ever have was what they had here in the dwindling number of years they had left. And he didn’t want to waste any more of them. He wanted—needed—her. In his arms, in his bed, in his life. What might come of that decision down the road he didn’t know. And for now, he wasn’t sure he cared.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Morrigan looked up as Xandros approached. The elf gave her a half-smile. “I knew you wouldn’t want to join the festivities. I took the liberty of bringing you a plate before my fellow Wardens ate it all.”

She smiled slightly in return, taking the plate. “You have my thanks,” she said with some difficulty. “Is there something you require in return?”

They had been traveling together long enough now that he was used to her awkwardness in the face of kindness. “Of course not.” Hesitantly, Xandros said, “You seem more pensive than usual this evening. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Morrigan’s golden eyes flicked to the elf, and then back to her plate. “There is no need for that.”

This silence was not so companionable as that which usually hung between them, and Morrigan looked up to find the green eyes on her. “It’s obvious this trip is wearing on you. And even more obvious that you can’t—or won’t—turn to the Commander or the King for comfort.”

A smile flitted across Morrigan’s face at the idea. “No, I do not believe Alistair would be interested in comforting me. Nor Thora, for that matter, albeit for different reasons.” She looked up at Xandros, her gaze measured. “Would you?”

Her tone altered the tenor of the conversation, taking it into a realm they had yet to explore. Xandros was glad for the darkness and the firelight, because he thought it was possible he might have blushed. He cursed his fair skin. “I wouldn’t say no, my lady.”

“Be careful, elf,” Morrigan whispered, tempted despite herself. “You do not know what you would be touching.”

“Tell me,” he said.

With a small, snorted laugh, Morrigan looked back into the fire. “What do you know of my daughter?”

“Only what I have gathered from listening—that she’s the daughter of the King. Which I admit is surprising.”

“She was created in a dark ritual. And contains within herself the soul of Urthemiel, the Old God who became the Archdemon during the Blight.” Morrigan watched him, seeing his eyes widen. “Yes. My mother, the famed Witch of the Wilds, sent me along with the Grey Wardens to see to it that I captured Alistair’s seed on the eve of the battle.”

“So to you the child was a magical entity more than she was a little girl.” The words were flat, expressionless. Morrigan couldn’t tell what he thought.

“That is so. Or, at least, it was so at first. As you may have gathered in your ‘listening’,” she said, her mouth quirking up, “she is very much Alistair’s child. And Alistair has an utterly irritating talent for being likeable. You must have noticed.”

Xandros smiled. The King’s easy charm was legendary, as was the unassuming friendliness with which he approached most people. They were disarming weapons in the battle of royal politics. “I take it that your daughter is also irritatingly likeable?”

Morrigan nodded. “She is. Not in his way, precisely—she is more like a wild creature, skittish and easily frightened—but something in her calls to me strangely. Her trust in me, her belief that I can solve any of her troubles … they are difficult to turn away from.”

“You’re saying that you’ve come to love her?”

He was watching her closely enough to see the shudder that went through her before she closed her eyes, nodding. “Yes. The—things my mother intends to do, they will take from her what makes her my child. The Old God will come to the fore and the innocent, trustful child will recede until she is … lost. Once, I wanted this.”

“And now you don’t.” Xandros was sitting next to her now, and one arm slid across her narrow shoulders. Without thinking, Morrigan leaned against the elf.

“No. Now I want to raise my daughter, see her grow to adulthood. Flemeth would tell me that these are the weak dreams of a foolish girl. But when I think of my mother harming my child, I do not feel weak.” Morrigan’s jaw clenched.

“We won’t stop until we find her,” Xandros said, his arm tightening around her. “That I promise you.”

Morrigan turned, their faces very close, and studied the green eyes. “It is a generous promise, but one I will not hold you to. You do not know what my mother is capable of.”

“I am, however, getting an idea what you’re capable of. Don’t give up hope,” he murmured. “We will find her.”

“Perhaps it is another foolish weakness, but I almost believe you,” Morrigan whispered. She took his face in her hands, bringing his mouth to hers.


	24. Enter Sandman

Far from the shores of Lake Calenhad, somewhere deep in the forest of the Bannorn, Anawyn practiced a basic cold spell, trying to freeze a leaf. Granny had made it clear that Anawyn was to practice until she got it right every time, and if Anawyn moved from the small clearing where she was practicing, Granny would be most displeased. Since they’d left the lake, Granny had been snappish and irritable, especially with Anawyn, so now the little girl focused hard, not wanting to give Granny anything to be upset about. She’d been out there for some time already, and the cold spells were making her cold, despite the warmth of the day. Despite how much she wanted to sit down and take a rest, it didn’t seem wise.

Granny had kept Cybele by the campfire, saying the two of them were going to do some special practicing. At one point, Anawyn had been jealous that Granny seemed to spend more time training Cybele than she did Anawyn, but increasingly it was a bit of a relief when Granny’s focus was on the other girl.

Anawyn was startled from her thoughts by the sound of someone tramping through the woods. Granny appeared, looking worried and annoyed. “Come with me,” she snapped.

When they reached the campfire, Anawyn saw that Cybele was asleep. Granny glanced over at the figure in the blankets, but when she saw Anawyn watching her, said, “Hurry up and eat so you can get to sleep.” She tossed Anawyn a piece of bread and an apple, then sat at the fire, studying in her big black book, ignoring Anawyn.

Although she was intensely curious about what was in the book—Granny called it a grimoire—Anawyn knew better than to ask. She quietly ate her food. When she had finished, she looked up, but Granny was still deep within the grimoire, so Anawyn got up and went to her own blankets, curling up. She was pretty tired after the mental energy expended in learning her first cold spell, so she fell asleep quickly.

She found herself wandering in the endless yellow landscape of the Fade. She vaguely remembered being here before, but somehow this was different. Instead of being caught in some kind of dream, and seeing the strange formations of the raw Fade only in passing flashes, she felt almost as though she was awake. And someone was calling her name.

“I’m here!” she called out. “Where are you?” But the words echoed through the Fade. She walked toward the sound of the voice as it continued to call to her.

The voice got closer and closer until finally she saw the caller. He was beautiful, his features finely sculpted and his eyes piercing, blue as the ocean. And so tall, taller than anyone she had ever seen. Anawyn could only stare for the longest minute, until finally the being gave a melodious laugh. She could have listened to that laugh for hours.

“Who are you?” she asked in wonder.

“That answer is complicated.”

“Are—are you a demon?”

“Would I tell you if I was?”

“Probably not.”

He chuckled. “Wise girl. I am … contained in the body of your friend Cybele.”

“What?”

“Ah,” he said, studying her. “I see you do not know. Perhaps they have not told you?”

“I’m sorry, ser, but I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

“Would you like me to explain?”

Anawyn nodded.

“My name is Urthemiel. Have you heard of me?” At Anawyn’s shake of the head, he smiled. “Before I was bound to Cybele, I was tainted. Corrupted. By darkspawn. You have heard of those?” She nodded again. “I was what they called the Archdemon. But the dragon form that I inhabited was killed. By someone you know rather well, I believe.”

“My mother,” Anawyn breathed.

“Yes. And I am grateful to her for freeing me from my prison. Unfortunately, instead of my soul being freed, it was entrapped in the body of a developing infant. That infant became a little girl named Cybele.”

“How did that happen?”

His head tilted to one side, he gazed at her, a strangely amused expression on his face. “I do not believe your mother would thank me for telling you about that particular ritual.” He studied her again, then abruptly said, “Anawyn, my young friend, I would like to apologize to you. Because I am going to ask you to help me, and what I need from you will not be easy.”

“I’ll help if I can,” she said, gazing up at him. “But I don’t know why you would need my help. I’m so new at magic, and I get things wrong all the time.”

Urthemiel chuckled softly. “You have more power than you are aware of. All you need is the proper training. But that is not why I am asking for your help. Who you are and the circumstance you find yourself in make you uniquely suited to what I need.”

“And what is that, ser?”

He sighed, clasping his hands behind his back and beginning to stroll along through the Fade. Anawyn walked beside him, feeling very small. “You see, little one, I long to be free. My spirit wants to fly to join the spirits of those who went before me, who were freed at the ends of the first four Blights. But without your help, that is not what will happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am bound to Cybele. And because the woman you call Granny is in the process of drawing my soul forth, banishing Cybele’s soul.” He looked keenly down at her.

“Banishing?” Anawyn echoed. “Does that mean— Will Cybele die?”

“Essentially, yes. Unless you save her.”

“M-me, ser?”

“Yes.” He gazed at her seriously. “You are the only one who can.” 

“But how can I free you, ser? I don’t … I don’t know anything about that kind of magic.”

“I hope that you will have help before that time comes. For now, what I ask of you is simple: stay close to your friend. Watch over her. Be especially careful when Granny attempts to separate you from her. That is what happened today, is it not?”

“It is,” Anawyn said in wonder. “Um, ser?”

“Yes?”

“How is it that you know so much?”

He threw his head back, his laugh echoing like the peal of bells. “I have been around a very long time, my young friend. I wander the Fade, and am able to find out much through the dreams of others. Although alas, since she is a dwarf I have never had the pleasure of meeting your mother in her dreams. Well, during the Blight, but she hardly saw me at my best. I have seen her through the eyes of others, however, and I look forward to meeting her one day.”

“But she’ll never be able to come to the Fade.”

Urthemiel smiled his lovely smile, even rows of white teeth gleaming. “Never is a very long time,” he said.

Anawyn wondered what he meant, but she had a great deal of experience in talking to adults. She recognized the tone that indicated he wouldn’t be pushed any farther on that topic. “This doesn’t feel like a dream,” she said.

“It is, and it is not. Mages can walk the Fade, and you, little one, are a mage. Fledgling, yes, but a mage all the same. But also, the first step has been taken toward bringing me forth. Cybele has been fed a potion, and now I am closer to reality. I can speak to you here in the Fade.” The piercing eyes met Anawyn’s. “She will not remember this, you understand. She slumbers dreamlessly this night.”

“Why is Granny doing this?”

“Put simply? Power. Tied to the mortal world, I will have it, and she will be able to control it.”

“That doesn’t sound very nice.”

“It is not. Nor is she. The one you call Granny is much, much more than she seems.” Urthemiel bent down, looking deeply into Anawyn’s eyes. “Do not mistake me, little one. She is dangerous. And you must be very, very careful.” He straightened, looking off into the distance. “And now, I think, it is time for you to wake up. I have told you enough for one night.”

“Ser? Could I ask you one more question?”

“One more.”

“Are you the reason Cybele is so pretty?”

He stared at her, his head cocked to the side, and then the delightful laugh pealed forth again. “Anawyn Theirin Aeducan, you are a treasure.” He gazed at her a moment more, then said, “The next time you and Cybele are somewhere that you can look into a mirror, do so. And then come back to me.”

“How will I find you?”

“Do not worry. I will find you.”

With a start, Anawyn sat up in her blankets. The forest was dark, and she heard Cybele’s soft breathing near her. Remembering Urthemiel’s words, she inched closer to the other girl’s blankets, feeling protective.


	25. A Little Good News

On the morning of the second day out from Lothering, Thora came over a the rise of a hill and saw a small camp set up not far from the road. A very small camp, to be sure—only one wagon. As she came closer, she could see two small figures sitting near the campfire. 

“Do you think they’re in some kind of trouble?” she asked Anders as he caught up to her.

“Perhaps they’re just enjoying the lovely day.” He looked up into the grey, cloudy sky. “Or maybe they’re in trouble.”

Thora sighed. “Just when you think things aren’t like they were during the Blight.” She moved down the hill, recognizing as she neared the camp that the figures were dwarves. Even after so many years happily on the surface, her heart warmed at the sight of her own people. 

One of the figures caught sight of the group coming toward them and stood up, waving wildly, jumping up and down. The smooth beardless face, the curly blond hair, the childlike enthusiasm—“Sandal!” Thora cried. She looked over her shoulder, catching Alistair’s eye. “Alistair, it’s the Feddics!” 

He put on speed, Dirnley keeping pace just behind him, and caught up with her. “D’you think they’d have seen Anawyn? And Cybele?” he added after a moment. In all of this, he had a tendency to forget the other girl. Alistair felt guilty over that, but he’d barely thought of that ritual, or the child to come of it, in so many years.

Thora’s eyes brightened. “Let’s go find out!” she said excitedly. She quickened her steps, the humans keeping up with her easily, and approached the fire.

“Commander! Your Majesty!” Bodahn said, coming toward them with a smile. He knelt before the King, who flushed, still not entirely comfortable being treated like royalty.

“No, please, Bodahn, there’s no need for such formality. I’m just Alistair.” He reached a hand down to the dwarf, helping him to rise.

“I thank you, Your Majesty,” Bodahn chuckled. “The knees aren’t as young as they used to be.” 

“Bodahn,” Thora began urgently, “we have to ask you—“ but she was cut off by a strangled sound from Sandal. Looking at the younger dwarf, she saw that his dark eyes were blazing and the usual smile was absent from his face. She looked back at Bodahn, who shook his head slightly.

“If you can see my wares?” he asked with a hearty chuckle. “Of course!” He began to lay things out, dwarven-made goods that were hard to find outside of Orzammar. Thora, Morrigan, and Alistair had heard most of the patter many times, but Sigrun in particular was fascinated. Thora just hoped Sigrun didn’t recognize any of the items from her time in the Deep Roads as part of the Legion of the Dead. Bodahn and Sandal were notorious scavengers, although that’s not quite the way Bodahn liked to put it. 

When the rest of the party was busy looking at his wares, Bodahn put a hand on Alistair and Thora’s arms. “Commander? Your Majesty? I have a few special items that may interest you.” They glanced at each other in concern before turning to follow him, Dirnley at Alistair’s elbow as always.

“Dirnley,” Alistair said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “I think we’ll camp here. Be a good fellow and go start setting up the tents, would you, please?”

“But, Sire, uh …” Dirnley began, clearly flailing for a reason to stay near the King. 

“Thanks so much,” Alistair said, as if Dirnley had agreed, and turned back to follow Bodahn. Dirnley looked after the King, his mouth opening and closing helplessly, then barked for Jens and turned to the pile of tents.

“Nicely done,” Thora said quietly. “Very regal.”

“Ugh, really?” Alistair looked pained. “I’m trying not to develop those attitudes.”

Thora shrugged. “They come in handy sometimes.”

They stopped behind Bodahn as he lowered the tail gate of the wagon, putting the wagon between them and the rest of the group. “My lady, forgive me—you were about to ask about your daughter, I believe.”

“H-how did you know that?” Thora breathed. “Have you seen her?” She reached out, grabbing Alistair’s hand almost unconsciously. It closed around hers protectively.

“Yes,” Bodahn said. “Several days back, I’m afraid. At least, I think it was her. Red hair like yours, just a bit shorter than I am?”

“That sounds like my girl.” Thora clenched her teeth against the tears. Alistair held her hand more tightly. He still had trouble thinking of his baby as such a tall girl, and felt a fresh pang of guilt over how long it had been since he’d seen her.

Bodahn studied them both for a moment, then went on. “She was traveling in the company of an old woman and another little girl. A dark-haired girl, about the same size. Their faces …” His voice trailed off.

Alistair sighed. “Yes, they’re both my daughters. It’s a long story.”

“As you say, Sire,” Bodahn said. “The dark-haired girl was timid; she clung to your girl. Yours wasn’t afraid at all.”

“Bodahn, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you know?” Thora asked. “You haven’t been to Amaranthine since Anawyn was a baby.”

“Well, the resemblance to the two of you is striking,” Bodahn said, “but really it was Sandal. He knew right away. He …” Bodahn leaned closer to the two of them. “He gave her a ring, one he’d enchanted himself. It will give her protection against magic and physical harm.”

“There is much more to that young man than meets the eye,” Thora said, thinking of finding Sandal in a room full of dead darkspawn in the middle of Fort Drakon. He was a powerful ally, if easily overlooked.

“There most certainly is,” Bodahn said. He looked back at the two in front of him. “She looked well. But Sandal was concerned for her. He said the old woman … was not to be trusted. Should I—maybe I should have tried to keep her.”

“No, Bodahn,” Thora said. She disentangled her hand from the warmth and comfort of Alistair’s and squeezed Bodahn’s shoulder. “She would have killed you if you had tried. You did everything you could have done. More. Thank you, my friend.”

Alistair shook the dwarf’s hand. “Thank you. If there is ever anything you need, you know you may freely call on me. Any time. Sandal, as well.”

“Thank you, Commander. Majesty.” Obviously moved and uncomfortable, Bodahn moved past them, joining Sigrun, pointing out a pair of gauntlets.

“She’s all right. Or was,” Thora said in relief.

“And taking care of her sister,” Alistair said, smiling foolishly. Then his eyes widened. “Morrigan! We’ll have to tell her about this.”

“Why don’t you?” Thora said.

“Me? Talk to Morrigan? On my own?” Alistair looked panicked.

Thora looked up at him. “You haven’t spoken to her about Cybele at all, have you?” He shook his head, looking abashed. “Then I think it’s time you did. Surely you have questions.”

“B-but Morrigan,” he protested. “She’ll … be sarcastic at me.”

“She won’t be the last one,” Thora grinned. She walked off, finding Sandal where he stood smiling off to the side. Putting a hand on the young dwarf’s arm, she said, “Sandal, you may have saved her life. Thank you.” And kissed him on the cheek.

Sandal blushed bright red. “Thank you,” he said. “Enchantment!”

“Enchantment, indeed.”  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair found Morrigan searching for herbs in a nearby field. As he walked toward her, she stood up, her golden eyes regarding him watchfully. “And what have we here? The mighty King of Ferelden deigning to speak to a mere apostate?”

“I had news to share, but if you’re going to be that way about it …” He sighed heavily, turning away.

“Wait! Perhaps … perhaps I was hasty,” Morrigan said. He turned back to her, grinning, and she frowned. “If that was merely one of your attempts at humor and there is no news …”

“Yes, you’ll turn me into a toad,” he said.

“Toads are your obsession,” she said. “I have never specified what you might become. Intelligent, I think, might be a suitable curse.”

“Are we going to insult each other all day, or do you want to hear what I came to tell you?”

“Go on.”

“Bodahn and Sandal saw the girls. Anawyn and … Cybele.”

“They did?” Her eyes brightened despite herself, and she took an eager step forward. “Were they … well?”

“Yes. Both of them.”

“And Cybele allowed herself to come near the dwarves?” At his upraised eyebrow, she explained, “The child has dreams of our friend killing the Archdemon. She fears dwarves because of those dreams.”

“Well, that’s not at all ironic,” Alistair said. “Apparently she clung to Anawyn the whole time. Sounds like the girls are becoming friends. Um, if she’s afraid of dwarves … what does she like?” He asked the question hesitantly, expecting Morrigan to snap his head off.

But the mage’s eyes were soft for the moment, thinking of her daughter, and she said slowly, “Animals. Baby animals. Rainbows, trees. Pretty things. Rain. Cheese.” She said the last word reluctantly, but with amusement rather than rancor.

“Cheese, eh?” Alistair said, grinning. The smile faded. “Does she … know about me?”

“She knows she has a father. I have told her more than once, in a fit of pique, how much she is like you. It was not a compliment, although she may have taken it as one. But she does not know who you are or what office you hold.”

“So there’s little chance that she and Anawyn know they are sisters?”

“I had not thought of that,” Morrigan said. She considered for a moment. “Blood is powerful. It calls to itself. So possibly. Cybele is … easily led, however. She believes much of what is told to her, unquestioning. If Flemeth chooses that she will not know …”

“Anawyn isn’t like that. She doesn’t rest until she finds things out,” Alistair said. “She’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Much like her mother, then?”

“You could say that.” He took a deep breath. “Morrigan?” 

“Yes, Alistair?” Her tone was cautious, and he almost decided not to ask, but it was important.

“When this is … over, if … everything goes well, can I—I would like to know her.”

“The way you know your other child, only on those occasions the Queen will let you off the lead?” Morrigan smiled as he flushed.

“No,” he said, painfully. “If we get the girls back, I would like to do better by both of them. For them—and my son—to know each other. As family. Nothing is more important.” He thought miserably of his own childhood, of Morrigan growing up alone in the forest as a tool of Flemeth, of Thora accused of the murder of one brother by the other. “Nothing,” he said.

Morrigan studied him, her eyes unusually soft. “Perhaps,” she said. 

And he accepted the answer—it was better than he’d hoped for.


	26. Hit Me with Your Best Shot

The scene around the campfire was so familiar—the small cluster of tents, Morrigan’s fire off on its own, Bodahn’s wagon parked nearby, Oghren’s voice booming above everything, Alistair’s dark eyes watching her across the fire. If only Wynne and Leliana were there, Thora thought. She could have used her old friend’s wise counsel and Leliana’s warm affection. She dumped her armload of wood on the pile, bumping into Oghren as he came stumbling back from the woods. 

“My friend,” she said, “you’re lucky you’re a dwarf and have the constitution of the very Stone.”

“Ha!” he grinned. “Ever’body wishes they were a dwarf. ‘Specially wish their deep stalker could reach as far into the pink cavern,” he grunted, winking at her and waggling his hips lewdly.

“Trust me,” she said, “humans don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Er, some of them, anyway.”

“Little pike-twirler’s not so little, eh?” He guffawed, slapping his knee.

“Oghren, can you be serious for a minute?” she asked, sighing. It was always a mistake to play along with him.

“I’ll give it a shot for ya.”

Thora looked around, taking a quick inventory of the party. Jens was on patrol, Morrigan hunched over her fire, Sigrun giggling at Bodahn’s stories over at the dwarves’ wagon, Alistair washing up dishes with Dirnley’s dubious assistance, and Anders lounging near the main campfire. Xandros was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn’t worried about him overhearing this one. “Dirnley’s spying on us,” she said quietly.

“Is he now?” Oghren growled in annoyance. “Shoulda known. Squirrelly blighter.”

“Exactly.”

“What do ya want me to do, kill ‘im?” The dwarf rubbed his hands together, his eyes glinting.

“No! Oghren, where would that get us?”

“Short one spy?”

“Right. Then she’d just assume the worst. No, we need to defuse him.”

“How you want to do that?”

“How much of your special brew do you have?” She grinned at her old friend.

“By the Stone, girl, you do want to kill him!”

“No, no,” she said. “I just want him to think you’re his best friend. Can’t you do that, get him drunk, cozy up to him? Show him a good time?”

Oghren pulled at his flaming red beard. “’Spose I could. Be easier if we were near a town. Not much good time showin’ around here, unless ya think Sigrun’s his type.”

“He seems too stiff-necked for that sort of thing,” she said. “Let’s start small, huh? Just make the man feel welcome.”

“Got it.” Oghren set off toward the fireside, now that Alistair and Dirnley had returned to it. 

Thora walked a bit further around the perimeter, and bumped into the shadow she’d been looking for. “I can’t help but notice you’re not in your usual spot, Xandros.”

He looked down at her, shrugging. “The lady would prefer to be alone.”

“Something you said?” The words were flippant, but the tone was gentle.

“Or something she said. It’s hard to tell for sure. Either way, what she needs is space.”

“Is she all right?”

“She struggles with her humanity versus her training.” He hesitated, not sure how much to say. “The ritual—you know about it?”

“Rather more than you do, probably,” Thora said, wincing. She hated to be reminded of that awful night.

Xandros nodded, having suspected as much. “Flemeth is apparently bringing the original plan to fruition, something Morrigan intended to do. But Morrigan … has become a mother. In spite of herself, she loves her daughter.”

Thora smiled. “I’m not surprised. Morrigan has depth that she doesn’t like to show.” She remembered her own rocky start with the witch. It had taken them a great deal of time to achieve mutual respect. “And you, Xandros?”

“I am a Grey Warden. At your command, I am following the trail of your daughter, and hers. If there is to be anything more, it will have to unfold naturally. I will not push.”

“You always seem to know what you’re doing,” Thora said softly. “It’s a trait the rest of us could use more of.”

Xandros smiled, but didn’t say anything.

“All right, then. Keep me posted if anything there needs my attention.” Thora patted him on the arm, and returned to the campfire, which even in these few moments had become louder. Standing just on the edge of the firelight, she looked over the grouping. Oghren, Dirnley, Anders, Alistair. Oh, this was not going to be good. She should get one of them out of there, she thought. But which one?  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Oghren nudged Dirnley in the ribs. “Can’t tell me you don’t have some stories. All them Denerim girls. Come on, Dirn—What the Stone is yer name, anyway?”

“Sep-Septimus,” Dirnley said, slurring.

“Septimwha?! No bloody wonder,” Anders muttered into his mug.

“Call ya … Tim,” Oghren said, clapping Dirnley on the back. “Come on, Tim, tell us some stories.”

“I don’ know any,” Tim hiccupped. “Been palace guard. Captain now, y’know? Not much time for stories. Not like you. Savin’ the world.”

“Well … yeah,” Oghren said, flattered. “Commander saved the world, though.”

“Commander,” Tim grunted. “Troublemaker, more like.”

“Watch it, my lad,” Anders said sharply, sitting up. “No one insults her in my presence.”

Alistair put a not-gentle hand on Anders’s shoulder, pushing the mage down while levering himself up. “Have a seat, mage. If anyone defends her honor, it’s going to be me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Anders stood up, too, glaring at Alistair. “Before or after you hide behind your wife’s ruffly skirts?”

“Jealous, mage? You want some of those fancy dresses to go with the one you’re already wearing?” Alistair took a step closer, so the two men were standing face to face. “Maybe you’re just bitter because you’ve never … measured up to her standards,” he sneered.

“How dare you talk about her that way? Maybe if you’d kept your word, she wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere for … companionship.”

“At least she found herself a pretty girl to confide in.” Alistair reached out, flipping Anders’s ponytail contemptuously.

“She had to talk to someone, didn’t she, when you decided she was no longer worthy of you?” Anders spat. 

“How much does it hurt, knowing all she’s ever wanted to do with you is talk?” Alistair asked, his voice soft and venomous.

Thora had been staring at this escalation in horror, frozen to the spot, but now she started forward. A hand shot out of the darkness and closed on her arm. “You have created this quagmire,” Morrigan said sharply in her ear. “If you step in now, nothing will be proved, and you will only have fanned the embers. Which will continue to smolder, unquestionably.”

“But—they …”

“Are grown men and fully aware of what they are doing.” At Thora’s skeptical glance, Morrigan shook her head. “Do not think Oghren’s foul concoction has caused this. It has been forming for some time.”

Thora looked back at the fireside. Dirnley—Tim—was staring wide-eyed up at the two men, but he was being forcibly restrained by Oghren. And the alcohol-induced weakness in his knees. Oghren took a large swig from his mug, grinning from ear to ear.

“You talk a good game, Your Majesty,” Anders said. “You’re not much on the follow-through, though, are you?” He raised his arms, and fire began to blaze around his fingers. Then he staggered back suddenly and the fire disappeared, his hands clenching.

“You forget, I was trained as a Templar. Some skills are forever,” Alistair said triumphantly, but then his head whipped around when Anders’s fist shot out of the darkness and connected with his jaw.

“And you forget, you bloody bastard,” Anders panted, “that I was trained by her. I don’t have to rely on magic.”

Alistair wiped a trickle of blood off his lip, and the two men squared off, eyeing each other as worthy opponents. 

“Splendid fight, eh, Tim?!” Oghren chortled. “Whattya say, 5 sovereigns on Sparkle-fingers!”

Blearily, Tim focused on the fighters. “Why not?” he said at last. “5 s-sov’reigns on the King.”

Watching the mage closely, Alistair looked for an opening. Anders was right; he should have known that Thora would never allow a mage under her tutelage to depend only on magic. He studied Anders, trying to evaluate his skill objectively, but his anger rose as he remembered all those nights listening to the mage laughing in her office, the door of which was closed to Alistair; all the times “Anders said” had come up in Anawyn’s conversations; all the opinions the mage had given unbidden regarding Alistair’s daughter. A growl rose from deep in his chest and he lunged forward wildly, burying his fist in Anders’s stomach.

Anders doubled over, gasping, but came up with both fists clenched, catching Alistair just under the jaw. Alistair’s head snapped back with a roar of pain.

“Not … so much … without your sword,” Anders panted.

Alistair’s fist smashed squarely into his nose, and Anders howled, his hands covering his face, blood trickling between his fingers. 

“Good enough,” Alistair said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. 

Anders struck out with a sloppy roundhouse that connected with the side of Alistair’s head, knocking the King back a few steps.

Thora crossed her arms, watching, hoping they wouldn’t do each other too much damage. Anders was their healer, after all. He wouldn’t be much use if he was too busy healing himself.

Swaying unsteadily on his feet and nearly unable to see due to the blood leaking from a cut over his eye, Alistair stepped forward, planting his feet with obvious difficulty, and landed a solid punch to Anders’s jaw. Slowly the mage tilted backward, until he fell entirely over. Alistair’s battered face lit up for a moment, then he, too, slowly fell, landing on top of Anders.

Thora sighed, looking at the mess they had made of each other. “You really think they resolved anything with this display?” she asked Morrigan, moving toward the men to try and shift them into more comfortable positions.

“Much of that, I think, will depend on you,” Morrigan said, turning to go back to her own fire.

“Morrigan?” The witch paused, but didn’t turn her head. “He’s an honorable man. Give him a chance.”

Without giving any evidence that she had heard, Morrigan continued into the darkness.

Tim had passed out from Oghren’s ale a while back, but Oghren sat chortling to himself. “Never thought to see such a thing outside Tapsters,” he mumbled in glee. “Them faces ain’t gonna be so pretty for a long while. Good times!” He toasted himself, draining his mug, then fell backward off his log, passed out next to Tim.

Thora stood over the campfire, looking around her helplessly. This certainly didn’t look like old times any longer.


	27. The Aftermath

Alistair groaned, shifting. He didn’t remember his bedroll being quite this uncomfortable. Next to him, he heard another set of groans, and at the same time he became aware of his face, his hands, and most of the rest of his muscles throbbing painfully. With some difficulty, he managed to roll over onto his back and open his eyes, blinking against the brightness. He sighed in relief when a shadow blocked out the sun, but then, as the memory of last night’s fight with Anders returned, he recognized the shadow as that of a very irritated dwarf.

Thora reached out an armored toe and nudged both men in the ribs, not bothering to be gentle. “Up. Now.”

There were various groans and protests.

Unmoved, Thora put her hands on her hips. “Last night’s display was beneath two men of your intelligence and … presumed maturity. Get up.”

“Wait,” said Anders, sitting up. There was an audible crack as he stretched his back. “You were watching?”

“Uh … no, of course not!”

“She was watching,” Alistair said, nodding at the other man. “Couldn’t help it, could you?” He tried his best mischievous grin, but judging from the pain in his face, stiff with dried blood, and the narrowing of Thora’s brown eyes, the grin wasn’t going to get him very far.

“Both of you, off the ground,” she barked. “There’s a camp waiting to be packed.” As Anders wiggled his fingers experimentally, she shook her head. “Oh, no, mage. As your Commander, I order you, no healing spells. I want to make sure this doesn’t happen again. Therefore, both of you are charged with packing up camp—by yourselves—with no more healing than you’d get from a poultice.”

“Commander, I—“ Anders began, at the same time as Alistair said, “But, Thora—“

“You heard me.” She turned away from them, not unhappy about the grumbling she heard behind her. Let them grumble. Maybe it would teach them a lesson. 

Another groan came from the edge of the campfire, where Tim—Dirnley—was still recovering from his first experience with Oghren’s ale. “Commander, he’s the King of Ferelden, should he really …” Tim protested weakly, watching as Alistair got to his feet with difficulty. After a moment’s thought, Alistair reached a hand down to help Anders up. Anders looked at the hand suspiciously, then took it.

“Thanks,” Anders said gruffly.

“Yep,” Alistair clipped off. Without looking at each other, they headed off in different directions to start pulling up tent stakes.

Thora looked back at Tim. “Don’t you worry. He’s packed up camp many, many times. Once more won’t kill him. Just hurt a lot.”

That was no understatement, Alistair thought. He bit back a moan as his battered hands closed around a tent stake. He’d already made enough manly noises of agony for one morning. No sense in embarrassing himself further. He hoped there would be food at the end of this long, long task, though. Surely she couldn’t be so cruel as to deny two hungry Grey Wardens breakfast!

As she watched Alistair try to pretend he wasn’t in pain, Thora said to Tim, “Clearly the hard work is good for him. Stretches those stiff muscles. If you’re feeling like you need something to do, though …” She let her voice trail off.

Tim groaned, looking ill. “No, no, this is good,” he said hastily.

After they were all packed up, Thora went over to the neat pile of baggage and the two men who stood over it, watching each other warily. “All right, boys,” she said. “Good job. Have you learned your lesson?” Two blond heads nodded. “There will be no more of this foolishness. Fighting each other isn’t going to resolve anything, and it may well jeopardize this mission and Anawyn’s safety.” They both looked shame-faced at that. “I’ll talk to both of you about your issues later. Anders, you’re free to heal now.” With a sigh of relief, Anders closed his eyes, his hands waving in the air. His nose returned to its usual shape and the bruises faded from his face. “Now him,” Thora said when he was finished, jerking her head towards Alistair, who grinned smugly. 

“Fine,” said Anders, and he pointed his fingers toward Alistair, who looked almost blissful as his cuts began to close. He flexed his hands, feeling the fingers moving freely again. This morning he wouldn’t have been able to grip a sword properly if he’d tried.

When both of them were more or less back to normal, Thora said firmly, “Now, shake.”

They looked as though they wanted to protest, but she was unmovable. Reaching out, they grasped each other’s hands.

Too late, Thora realized what she had started. She should have made them shake before letting Anders heal their hands, she thought. “No squeezing contests!” Thora said sharply. Alistair blushed and Anders looked sheepish as they let go. “All done now? Male pride thoroughly squashed into the dust, renewed commitment to our actual purpose? Breakfast is on the hoof this morning—biscuits, bacon, apples. Grab what you can carry.” Without waiting for them to reply, she turned, calling to the rest of the party, “Move out!” They said their good-byes to Bodahn and Sandal, who were continuing toward Lothering, and the party stretched out on the road toward Lake Calenhad. 

Thora hung back a bit, letting everyone else go on ahead. She noticed that both Anders and Alistair were loitering behind, too, clearly wondering which one of them she was going to speak to first. Well, she’d have to chat with them both eventually. “Anders,” she called. “Can I talk to you, please?”

She didn’t miss the triumphant look he shot Alistair, and she shook her head in irritation.

“Yes?” Anders asked, looking down at her complacently.

“Where to start? I suppose with this: my honor never needs defending from someone like Dirnley. I expect more from you, and Alistair deserves more respect than you showed him last night. He’s your King, and Anawyn’s father. Understood?” He nodded. “More importantly … Anders, I never intended to make you think there was a future for us, or to treat you as though we were in some kind of life partnership.” His eyes widened, and she hurried on. “You are my dear friend, and because of that I encouraged you to be part of my life in ways that were not appropriate.”

He started to say something, then thought better of it.

“Anders, have you been waiting for me?” She stopped, looking up into his eyes. He looked away uncomfortably. “I’m so sorry. But …”

“Him,” Anders said softly, bitterness underscoring his tone. “Always him.”

“Yes. I didn’t realize how thoroughly I had hidden that: from you, from him, from myself.”

“I knew … certain things weren’t on the table. But I hoped …”

“I really thought I’d made it clear that first night on the road. Didn’t I?”

“How can he just come along after all this time and it’s like nothing ever happened?” Anders said, his voice cracking. 

“It’s not like that. But … it is, too,” Thora said softly. “I don’t know why, and it’s not fair, and I’m sorry, Anders.”

He looked at her, his anger cooling, and a corner of his mouth quirked up. “This is the reason I don’t usually get involved with women like you. You’re too nice for your own good.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that way back when.” She offered him a smile, and was relieved to get one in return, albeit a tentative one.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “There I was, an apostate mage about to be hauled back to the Chantry for punishment, and there you were, the beautiful woman who saved me. What wasn’t to … get involved with?” 

Thora smiled sadly. She remembered the night they’d met, how overwhelmed and scared she’d been, how angry and saddened by the loss of her new recruits in the attack on the Vigil. “Well, there was the King’s baby. That might have been a deterrent.”

“Cutest baby I’d ever seen.” He looked at her seriously. “We’re going to get her back, you know.”

“I know. And I wouldn’t want to do this without you. But …”

“Things have to change.”

She swallowed. “I think they’re going to.” She was afraid to admit, even to herself, how much she wanted things to change, wanted Alistair back in her life.

“Well, you deserve it, if anyone does.” He squeezed her shoulder, the familiar gesture making her smile. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll … walk by myself for a while.”

“Sure.” Thora put on a burst of speed. She caught up to Alistair, glancing sideways over at him. “What was that all about last night?”

“Revenge. For taking my place, in your life, in Anawyn’s.”

“You think beating him up somehow proved something to … anyone?”

Grudgingly, he said, “No.”

“That he’s held that place is partially due to my own weakness, and partially because you weren’t there. You had your reasons, I don’t dispute them, but they’re not Anders’s fault. You and I are the ones who created this situation, we’re the ones who should get the brunt of it. Also—that was beneath you. The King of Ferelden, getting into a brawl over a woman,” she snapped. “You should be ashamed of yourself. And right in front of Tim, too!”

“Tim?”

“Dirnley. Oghren nicknamed him—I’ve got Oghren cozying up to him, trying to make friends.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Pretty well. Oghren got him drunk and then they bet on your fight.”

“Yeah? Uh … who won?” Alistair rubbed his temples. His head was still pounding. The mage could hit.

Thora snorted. Ahead, she could see Oghren and Tim arguing that very thing. She wished Tim luck getting his 5 sovereigns. Technically, Alistair had thrown the last punch, but Oghren would never admit that. Putting on a burst of speed, she caught up with the gamblers, holding out her hand. “Both of you, give me those sovereigns.” Protesting, they did so. She jingled the coins in her hand, then turned around, raising her voice to be heard by the whole party. “I officially declare last night’s embarrassing display a draw, and claim these sovereigns as forfeit. We’ll find a good use for them somewhere along the way.”


	28. I'll Stand By You

They’d been climbing steadily into the mountains for several days now. Anawyn was sure their next stop was going to be Orzammar, and she was so excited she could hardly restrain herself from running ahead. She’d always wanted to see Orzammar—the statue of her mother in the hall of Paragons, the palace where her mother grew up, Tapster’s Tavern that Uncle Oghren always talked about, maybe even the Aeducan thaig in the Deep Roads. She gave a little skip of pure excitement.

Granny looked down at Anawyn, her face creasing in a frown. “All right, that’s far enough today,” she called out abruptly, and led the girls to a small clearing not far off the road. You could see the circle where a campfire had been once. As Granny knelt with some dead branches she’d picked up, building another fire on the ashes of the old one, the girls busied themselves unpacking their bedrolls. When the fire was crackling, Granny put on a pot to boil for tea and gave the girls some bread and apples. They ate quickly, the sharp air of the mountains having put a keen edge on their hunger. “Anawyn,” Granny said abruptly, watching the little girl over the flames.

“Yes, Granny?”

“We’re going into Orzammar. Did you know that?”

“I was hoping so.” Anawyn couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

Granny nodded slowly. “You are not to tell anyone who you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are not to let the dwarves know that you are your mother’s daughter.”

Anawyn stared at Granny wide-eyed. “Why not?”

“It could cause disruption—there would undoubtedly be a fuss, and we cannot train properly if we are constantly attracting an audience of curious dwarves. Do you understand?” Her voice was sharp.

“Of course, Granny,” Anawyn said. She took a bite of her apple, chewing thoughtfully. Did Granny think that just because she’d never been to Orzammar, she’d never met any of the dwarves? Kal’Hirol, the ancient city deep under Amaranthine, had been reopened only a couple of years ago, and Anawyn had been there for the ceremonies. Her mother hadn’t let her be too prominent, not wanting Anawyn to get embroiled in all the politics, but Anawyn had met King Gorim, an old and dear friend of her mother’s, and another old friend, Nerav Helmi, one of the deshyrs. Anawyn kept her eyes on the fire, chewing her apple. If Granny didn’t know they knew her in Orzammar, maybe she could get a message to King Gorim somehow, and maybe he could get in touch with her mother.

Once the girls had finished eating, Granny looked up into the trees, squinting against the setting sun. “We won’t have enough daylight for training, but you girls should go scavenge for some more wood. In these forests, we don’t want to let the fire die, lest some of the creatures get too curious.” Opening up her grimoire, Granny began to read.

Anawyn was thrilled to have an opportunity to explore the forest. The chances of this being the camp she was hoping it would be were slim, but it was worth looking

_“What kind of story would you like tonight, my girl?”_

_“Something about you and Father on the trail, before you fought the Archdemon. A happy story,” she had added hastily when she saw her mother’s mouth droop. Anawyn didn’t know what had changed between her parents, but she wished it would change back, so they could all have fun together._

_“All right,” Mother sighed, looking off into space. Suddenly she smiled, a soft, happy smile that Anawyn saw rarely and then only when they were alone. “We made camp as usual that night. Everyone was very nice to me and let me off most of the camp chores. We were getting close to Orzammar and I was nervous about going back after such a long time. Your father was particularly concerned. Since he was with me nearly all the time, he got the brunt of all my moods, poor man.”_

_“Was it anything like you get every year when it’s time to balance the Arling’s books?” Anawyn asked cheekily. “Because if so I feel sorry for him.”_

_“Oh, is that how you’re going to be?” Mother grinned, tickling Anawyn in the ribs until she howled with laughter. “All done now?”_

_“Yes, Mother.” Anawyn tried to compose her face into a proper listening expression._

_“So, anyway, while camp was being set up, your father disappeared for a long time. When he came back, he looked all proud of himself, like he’d just taken out an ogre.” Mother’s eyes misted over a bit. She shook her head impatiently. “He grinned like the cat that swallowed the canary all through dinner, then, when we were done eating, he took my hand and led me to a tree about 30 yards from the campfire. He’d borrowed Wynne’s staff, which glowed at night, and he held it near the tree. He’d carved our initials on the tree inside a heart.” At Anawyn’s small snort, Mother grinned. “Yes, I know now that it’s a pretty corny thing to do, but remember, there are no trees in Orzammar. If you carve your initials into the Stone, that’s a pretty big statement. And of course, your father was that kind of man. Things that would have seemed … overblown coming from other men, from him just seemed sweet and heartfelt. I can’t tell you what it meant to me, standing there knowing that for as long as that tree stood, there would be a witness to the fact that I belonged here, on the surface where the trees are, with him.” Mother spoke with increasing difficulty. “And then he kissed me, and he said—“ She broke off suddenly, swiping fiercely at her eyes. “That’s all for tonight,” she said, choking on the words, and rushed from the room._

_30 yards from the campfire,_ Anawyn thought. She guessed it would be away from the path, so she went that way, searching among the trees in the last of the light. Just as she thought she might have to give up, a light flared behind her, and she saw Cybele with a small ball of flame held out in her hand.

“Are you looking for something?” her friend said.

“Initials. Carved in a tree.”

“Up here? Why would anyone do that?”

“To remember what they meant to each other, I guess,” Anawyn said. “Didn’t work,” she muttered under her breath.

The girls prowled a bit farther. “Are you excited, going to Orzammar?” Cybele asked.

“Oh, yes! I can’t wait to see where my mother came from.”

Cybele looked sad. “All those dwarves are your people,” she said. “Will you—will you still want to be my friend?”

Anawyn stopped looking at the trees and stared at the other girl. “Of course I will! What kind of friend do you think I am?”

“I never had one before. I don’t know.”

“I’ll always be your friend,” said Anawyn. She was reminded of something she’d been thinking of for a while. “Here, I have an idea. Hold out your hand.”

Cybele did so, looking confused. Anawyn took the small dagger she always kept in her boot—that was Sigrun’s idea. Never be caught without a weapon, she’d said over and over again—and cut a small gash in her own hand, and then one in Cybele’s. The other girl gasped. “What’s that for?”

Anawyn clasped Cybele’s hand in her own, their blood mingling. “I read about it in a book once. Now we’re not just friends anymore, we’re sisters,” she said. “Bound to each other by blood.” If the Grey Warden taint that allowed them to sense each other was in the blood, maybe sharing her blood with Cybele would mean she could sense Cybele. It was worth trying, anyway. “Whatever happens, I’m always on your side. Don’t forget that.” Urthemiel’s face flashed into her mind, and she remembered his warnings. Part of her was scared of what might happen, but she was her mother’s daughter. She would protect her friend, and she would not back down.

Cybele looked at their clasped hands wonderingly, her beautiful golden eyes filling with tears. “I love you, Anawyn,” she said tremulously.

“I love you, too, Cybele,” Anawyn said, hugging the other girl fiercely.

As they let each other go, the flame in Cybele’s free hand flared up, and Anawyn saw it, just about at her eye level—and her mother’s, she thought. T.A.  & A.T. In a crudely carved heart. She reached out, hesitantly tracing the letters. She could hardly imagine what her parents must have been like when they loved each other like that. She made a promise to herself that when she was home, she would somehow make them care for each other. Maybe not fall in love again, since her father was still married, but be friends. They could do that much for her, and for each other. She was sure of it.


	29. Black Water

They slowed down considerably as they neared the lake, so that Xandros and Morrigan could take the time to thoroughly search for traces of the girls. As it turned out, they needn’t have bothered. The campfire, abandoned for several days now, was not far from the road, and the brush had been trampled on the pathway to it. Flemeth might as well have drawn them an arrow. Maybe that’s what she’d done, thought Thora uneasily, following the others down the path with Morrigan behind her. They were taking no chances—Morrigan, if possessed by Flemeth, would be an incredibly powerful weapon against them all. They couldn’t sense the presence of the girls, though, so it seemed unlikely that Flemeth was here. Thora determined it was time to get the full story out of Morrigan. Instead of following in Flemeth’s footsteps, maybe they should try to get out ahead of her instead.

As Thora and Morrigan emerged from the path into the little campsite near the lakeside, Xandros was kneeling over the ashes of the campfire. “I believe this is the right place,” he said. “There are scorch marks on a few of the trees nearby, as well, looking as though someone may have been practicing fire spells.”

Anders drew closer, intrigued. “So is she actually teaching Anawyn how to do magic? What would be the point there?”

Morrigan and Thora glanced at one another, then Thora sighed. “Flemeth is training Anawyn as a mage … so that when she’s ready, Flemeth can take over Anawyn’s body. It’s how she has survived all this time.”

Blanching, Anders said, “That’s monstrous! Poor little girl. Do you think she knows?”

“It’s hard to say. Probably not, though. It’s not as though Flemeth would tell her.”

From the lakeside, they heard Sigrun shout. She’d been walking toward the shore while Xandros poked at the campfire ashes. As she stepped off the last of the grass and onto the sand a ripple spread through the air, starting at the campfire, continuing past Sigrun, and slicing into the water. Eight giant tentacles burst into the air, followed by an equally giant rubbery black head. The creature had small eyes and a huge beak-like mouth, and it spit a jet of some inky substance toward the shore as it moved closer to them.

“Sigrun!” Jens bellowed, his boots pounding on the ground as he ran toward the dwarf. With reflexes honed over years of fighting, Sigrun ducked the tentacle that swept toward her, and it whistled over her head. She leaped back.

Anders and Morrigan were already in position at the edges of the clearing, fireballs sweeping toward the creature from one direction and the icy fingers of cold spells from the other. Thora called out, “Distance weapons! Keep back, aim for the eyes.” Xandros drew his bow, and Tim, Sigrun, and Alistair retrieved theirs from the weapons cache and joined him, arrows flying. “Jens, Oghren, get those tentacles on the left!” Thora called. Neither man had the dexterity to handle a bow effectively. “Don’t let it grab you!” She took the right side, hacking and slashing at the nearest tentacle, ducking the sprays of viscous black gunk that flew toward her at intervals.

Alistair cocked the antique crossbow he had taken off a Grey Warden skeleton at Soldier’s Peak. He fumbled with his first couple of bolts, making a mental note that more archery practice was called for when he got back to Denerim. But soon enough his muscles remembered what to do. They seemed to be making headway on the monster for a while—Thora had taken out one thick black tentacle, Oghren and Jens had cut down two more, and the beast was screaming in rage and pain from the steady flow of arrows and magic hitting it. Just as he was thinking they were prevailing, Alistair heard an uncharacteristically shrill scream from his left, where Morrigan was, and turned just in time to send a bolt flying into the open mouth of the hurlock who was trying to drag her off, knocking the hurlock back several feet. Between the trees, he could see the darkspawn leader in his hooded red shirt, but there was no time to go after the creature, as more darkspawn poured into the clearing. 

“Dirnley, Sigrun, to arms!” he called. He dropped the crossbow, unslinging his sword and shield from his back and rushing forward to engage a genlock. Morrigan got up from the ground where she had fallen when the hurlock dropped her, shaking herself. In a flash of green light she transformed into a large spider, which immediately rushed into the midst of the darkspawn, spitting venom and lashing out with razor-sharp legs.

Alistair was surrounded by darkspawn, slashing and blocking in a frantic but familiar rhythm. He was aware of Tim and Sigrun nearby, of Morrigan’s spidery form, of arrows whizzing through the air from Xandros’s bow. What was happening at the lakeside he couldn’t see. He parried a sword thrust from a genlock, using his shield to knock it to the ground, where one of Morrigan’s legs skewered it through the neck. Alistair whirled toward the genlock emissary at the edge of the clearing, but as his eyes swept over the lake, he saw a tentacle reach out, catching Thora around the chest. Her arms were raised, so her blades were free, but the tentacle squeezed, and over the sounds of the battle Alistair thought he could hear the cracking of her bones. He wasn’t even aware of starting to run toward her. His blood pounded in his ears, each beat of his heart seeming to come an hour after the last as he saw her struggles weaken, her sword falling from her hand to land with a splash in the water, her bright red head falling backward over the rubbery black tentacle as she hung limp in its grasp. His world narrowed to that small still figure, panic and horror filling him as the sand slid under his metal boots. He hadn’t felt this helpless since that moment at the top of Fort Drakon when he’d had to stand watching, terrified for her, as her sword pierced the neck of the Archdemon. 

Desperately, Alistair looked over his shoulder. “Anders!” he shouted. “Anders!!” In that moment there was no jealousy—all Alistair could think was that Anders was the only thing standing between her and certain death, and nothing was more important than her not dying in the midst of a battle with a stupid lake monster.

The mage’s arms dropped at his sides as a blizzard began to swirl around the darkspawn battle in the clearing. His head snapped up as he heard Alistair call his name, and his eyes followed Alistair’s gaze to the water, where the last remaining tentacle waved about in the air with its prize. The mage shook himself, hands out in front of him as he tried to heal her, and nothing happened. Anders produced a lyrium potion, fingers fumbling with the cork, swallowing it down.

Jens forced himself through the oily black water surrounding the monster’s head, sword stabbing at the thing. The flesh of the head was softer and less rubbery than that of the tentacles, and a fresh spray of dark blood greeted every slash, but it seemed to annoy the monster more than anything. Oghren wasn’t tall enough to get out that far. With some difficulty he exited the water, his massive armor slowing him down considerably, and charged into the dwindling mass of darkspawn instead. 

The lyrium seemed to have taken effect on Anders, and he closed his eyes, chanting something. Alistair prayed to Andraste that the mage’s power would be enough. Each moment that she hung there, unmoving, the years ahead of him seemed to pass, empty and colorless, without her in them. Above him he saw the blue flash in the sky, the crackle of the life energy around her, and suddenly her head moved, her hand with the dagger still somehow clutched in it weakly stabbing at the tentacle. 

On the shore, the darkspawn battle ended as Oghren’s sword cleaved through the head of the genlock emissary, the darkspawn leader melting away and eluding their grasp again. Jens held his greatsword above his head, then hurled it like a javelin. His aim was perfect, the sword lodging itself in the creature’s eye. The creature screamed, inky goo spraying from its mouth, falling backward into the water and sliding deep into the lake. 

At the base of the tentacle, Alistair had put every ounce of strength he had behind each two-handed swing of his sword, slicing as deeply as he could into the thick flesh. It seemed to take an eternity before he saw the blade sever the tentacle’s muscle and its grasp on Thora’s chest. With a last spasm before it disappeared beneath the surface, the tentacle threw her into the air.

And in a moment as triumphant and satisfying as any Alistair had ever experienced, he caught her as she fell. The impact caused her to shriek in pain, and she fainted. Despite the waist-deep water, the lake monster guts covering both of them, and whatever might be happening on shore, he bent over her, kissing her cheeks and forehead. Tears of relief threatened to spill down his face as he carried her back to shore and tenderly handed her over to Anders for healing. The resentment he’d cherished against Anders faded as Alistair saw his own fear and worry reflected in the mage’s face.


	30. In the Air Tonight

As Anders, with Morrigan’s more or less willing assistance, worked on healing Thora’s wounds in her tent, Alistair paced restlessly. The occasional moan or cry from inside made him flinch, and his brain’s insistence on replaying those moments when she’d hung, limp and lifeless, in the grip of that tentacle made him stop in his tracks, closing his eyes to thank Andraste Anders had been there to keep her alive. 

Jens and Oghren and Sigrun sat around the campfire, quietly cleaning all the wet armor. It wouldn’t do to let it all get rusty. Oghren worked on Thora’s sword, which Jens had retrieved from the water. Once it had been Maric’s, and the runes in it still glowed brightly. Oghren’s ever-present mug of ale sat disregarded at his feet. It didn’t seem to be the night for raucous drunkenness. 

Watching the King pace back and forth, muttering to himself, Jens commented, “The King seems very worried about the Commander. He must like her a lot.”

Oghren and Sigrun’s heads snapped around, and they stared at the big man. “Might say that, yeah,” Oghren said, his bushy red eyebrows raised halfway up his forehead.

“Um, Jens,” Sigrun said, “you do know that the Commander’s daughter, the one we’re looking for, is also the King’s daughter. Don’t you?”

Jens’s eyes widened.

“Guess he didn’t,” Oghren said.

Looking embarrassed, Jens muttered, “People don’t mostly tell me anything. Just ‘stand there’, ‘hit that’, those kinds of things.” He looked back at the King. “Sad,” he said. 

“Yep. Sad’s the word, all right,” Oghren said. “Among others, poor sods.” He drained the last of his mug, standing up on unusually steady legs. “Sparkle-fingers better not let her die. I ain’t about to let them make me Commander of all them nug-faced baby Wardens.” He put the sword away, and, still grumbling, went back to his tent to sleep in his bedroll for once. 

Sigrun watched him go. “Oghren’s pretty worried, too. You can tell because he only drank five mugs worth.”

Jens looked at her curiously. “Do they not trust the mages to heal her?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just … well, Oghren and the Commander go way back. He knew her in Orzammar when she was just a little girl. And the Commander is never injured. Or sick. It’s … not right.” She swallowed, staring into the fire. Jens reached out, awkwardly patting her back, and she turned her head to smile at him. “If you ever want to know anything,” she said, “come to me. I’ll tell you.”

“You’re a good friend,” he said, and Sigrun blushed.

“It’s not every day you find someone you can have fun with,” she said. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled into his side, feeling that this was a night when the comfort of a large warm body was highly needed.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Morrigan poked her head out of the tent, glaring at Alistair. “If you must act like a nervous cat,” she snapped, “it would be best if you did it somewhere else. You are agitating the healer, which does not seem to be the wisest course.”

“Right. Got it. I’ll just go and …” He flushed as her eyes narrowed. “Yep. Less talking, more going.” He wandered aimlessly across the camp, avoiding the fire, and stood at the lakeside. He picked up a stone to throw into it, then caught himself. Who knew what might be lurking out there that wouldn’t take kindly to a stone dropping on its head?

“How do you live with yourself?” came a voice out of the darkness, and Alistair’s head snapped around, looking for the source. 

Tim Dirnley stepped out of the shadows, his face set and angry. 

“Is that any way to speak to your King?” Alistair asked. Not that he cared to have people stand on ceremony around him, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to get into this with his Captain of the Guard, especially not right now.

“You’ve hardly been acting like one since she came bursting into the castle.”

“Care to explain that remark?”

“Do I need to?”

“Well, I could dismiss you from my service with a wave of my hand,” Alistair said mildly. “So why not take a stab at it?”

Tim stepped closer. “You take off from Denerim on this ridiculous quest, moon around after a common dwarf who’s no better than she should be, and leave your responsibilities and your wife behind you without a second’s thought. Is that what a king does?”

Alistair’s jaw clenched. “She is Commander of the Grey,” he said. “And a Paragon. There is nothing common about her. And she put her life on the line to save this country, never forget that. Also, I’m not doing anything my father didn’t do before me. He took off, didn’t he, leaving Loghain as his regent, and led a troop of Grey Wardens through the Deep Roads. He didn’t know if he would ever come back. More to the point, what’s it to you?”

Looking away, Tim said, “What about your wife? Did you consider her before you took off chasing after your … hero?”

In the darkness, Alistair’s eyes hardened like stones. “What goes on between my wife and me, or between the Commander and me, is none of your concern. Or is it?” he asked quietly, stepping closer to the other man. “Is there something you’d like to tell me? Do you have some … personal stake in my relationships?”

Tim stepped back a couple of paces, recoiling at the suggestion. “Er, no, ser,” he said.

“Come off it, Dirnley,” Alistair snapped. “I know she sent you along to spy on me. The question is, why? And what possessed you to agree with it? You must have known you’d be found out.” He gave a snort. “If it had been anyone other than me who caught you, you’d be in prison as a traitor to the crown. So why would it possibly be worth facing jail and the loss of your situation?”

“Isn’t it obvious why? This whole set-up seems like little more than a ploy by the Commander to get you back. Your honor, and that of Ferelden, is at stake,” Tim said. It would have sounded pompous if it weren’t so clear he believed it.

Alistair stared at his Captain of the Guard incredulously. “Know this: my honor, the country’s honor, those are nothing. The danger to those little girls is very real. The danger to all of us, and the country, if we don’t get those girls back, is very real. For you and Dorothea to doubt that, and to try and get in the way of our rescue attempt, endangers this country. Of that there can be no doubt.”

There was no mistaking the seriousness in his tone. Tim blinked. “Really, ser? I mean, Flemeth—the Witch of the Wilds? She’s a legend!”

“Legends have to come from somewhere. In this case, legend came from a very real, very powerful apostate. I’ve met her on more than one occasion, and she is a force to be reckoned with. For the love of the Maker, man, you’ve just fought a giant lake monster! A little stretching of your narrow conception of the world might be in order,” Alistair said, throwing his hands up. “Meanwhile, we still haven’t answered the question: why did you agree to spy on me for the Queen?”

“Well,” Tim squirmed, “she’s the Queen. And I … felt sorry for her. It’s no secret you have this half-caste bastard daughter that you run off to see, and no secret that after the Prince was born you stopped … going to see the Queen so much. Then to have you go off with your old lover on this made-up-sounding quest … I felt the Queen’s interests should be looked out for.”

Alistair buried his face in his hands, groaning. How he loathed rumors. And Dorothea had played them like a dulcimer the last few years, he saw that now. Her little looks of disappointment when she’d go off to her chambers alone, the sighs and understanding little pats on the arm. He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to them, having over time grown used to the soft and somewhat helpless demeanor she affected in public—public being anywhere someone other than Alistair could see her—but now he could see that she was making it look as though he was rejecting her, when more often than not she was the one who complained of headaches and other ill health. “If you want to look out for the Queen’s interests, you know the way back to Denerim,” he said finally. “If you’re staying here, you keep your nose in your own business and do as you’re told.”

“You don’t expect me to sit by while you commit adultery, do you?”

“I don’t frankly care what you do,” Alistair said, exasperated. “And I don’t believe it’s as foregone a conclusion as you seem to think. Besides, the entire Chantry is based on an adulterous relationship, so there’s no need to be all high and mighty about it.”

Tim’s jaw dropped. “How dare you speak of Andraste like that?”

“We are both talking about the same woman, right? Left her husband for the Maker without benefit of annulment?”

“That’s the Maker!”

“Maferath was her husband,” Alistair returned in the same tone. “Look, Dirnley, you’ve been with me as long as I’ve been King, which is the only reason I’m willing to give you another chance. I’m a patient man—I’ve enough faults of my own, I try to be tolerant of those I find in others—but there’s a limit to how much I will accept. If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll assume it’s an attempt to retain your position as Captain of the Guard, not in your capacity as the Queen’s spy. Otherwise … well, let’s just say I don’t appreciate my subordinates thinking they have a say in my personal life.”

Tim opened his mouth, then thought better of it and disappeared into the darkness. Alistair stared out over the lake, shaking his head. Eight years of keeping his hands to himself, five years of barely speaking to the woman he loved, and yet somehow he was still suspected of greedily wallowing in the very things he’d been so careful not to have. The virtue hardly seemed worth it now.


	31. In the Still of the Night

The camp quieted early that night. Thora’s injury had everyone off-balance. But in a camp that contained six Grey Wardens, quiet nights were relative, nightmares always taking their toll. Most nights at least one Warden was to be found moodily staring into the flames of the campfire, trying to recover from the aftereffects of a horrific dream.

Tonight Xandros had barely closed his eyes when the images began. The Alienage in flames, his family running and screaming, falling to the blades and teeth of the darkspawn. He sat bolt upright in his bedroll, then left the tent, wandering restlessly through the camp and across the space to the other little fire. The witch looked up at him, her golden eyes sympathetic. “The nightmares do not leave you alone, do they?” she asked.

“No.”

“Perhaps ‘tis time to try something new to ward them off.” She stood up.

“By now I thought I’d tried everything,” he said, the images still vivid and his mind only half on what she had said. But the nightmares could not stand against the picture she made there in the firelight as she dropped the scrap of cloth that covered her torso and then stepped out of her skirt. Morrigan walked to her tent, opening the flap, and she looked back at him, an expression of challenge masking what seemed to be nervousness, or possibly fear. 

“Are you coming or not, elf?” she asked, and he followed her into the tent.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thora felt as though she were swimming through cotton, trying to wake up. The dream had been terrifying, a mixed-up jumble of the Archdemon, Anawyn with flames all around her, the feeling of that tentacle tightening around her chest, and of course darkspawn. Always lots of darkspawn. She bit back a groan as she sat up, the ribs painful but not excruciatingly so. Anders slept next to her bedroll, for once peacefully. Thora tiptoed from the tent as quietly as she could, anxious not to wake him. Sleep was long past for her tonight, but there was no reason to ruin his rest.   
Remembering the flames from her dream, Thora avoided the campfire, and she followed the tingling of her skin toward the lakeshore. Alistair was sitting on a rock, staring out over the water, one arm draped over his upraised knee.

He looked around as she came up to him. “Should you be out of bed?” he asked. She could hear the concern in his voice.

Thora shrugged, wincing slightly and hoping the darkness covered it. “Couldn’t sleep. Nightmares.”

“Me, too.” 

The words tumbled forth unbidden. “Alistair, what if— What if we don’t find her? If we get there too late? What if …?” She couldn’t finish the sentence, and she didn’t have to. One arm reached out, closing gently around her and drawing her close to him. She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling his warmth seeping into her.

“We’ll find her in time. I’ve never known you to fail at anything,” he said.

“I failed her!” she wailed. And the dam she’d held together so long burst, the tears flooding out of her, soaking into his shirt. Alistair held her close, as she had held him so long ago, after their return to the battlefield at Ostagar. It was what she needed most, especially now—someone strong enough that she could let go of the control she kept over herself, if only for a few minutes. As her sobs eased, she put her hands up between them, pushing feebly at him.

“Please,” he whispered, “stay.” She made a noise of protest. “I promise,” he pleaded, “I won’t do anything that … Wynne wouldn’t approve of.”

Thora gave a watery chuckle. “What does that leave out? You might as well have said Oghren.” She heard the rumble of his laughter against her ear, and had to admit that she had absolutely no desire to go anywhere else right now.

“Please,” he said again. “It’s been so long since I held you, and who knows when I’ll ever get the chance again.”

For answer, she climbed up the rock and curled up in his lap, her head resting against his chest. 

Alistair nuzzled her tousled hair, breathing her in—the molten lava scent of Orzammar that still clung to her mingled with the fragrance of the flowers she loved. His arms tightened, careful of her ribs, around her. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered brokenly. “If Anders hadn’t been there today—“

Thora shivered. “But he was there.” She pushed the thought away. Her own mortality was too much to deal with. She’d be afraid some other time. Now, with the warmth and feel of Alistair all around her, was not that time.

“Thora.”

“Mmm?” She cuddled back against his chest, so comfortable.

“If— Would you— I mean—“

“Out with it, Alistair.”

“If you think you could be happy. With Anders, I mean. Well, it would be hard. You know. But I think I could—I think I could learn to accept it.”

She twisted, hissing in pain as her ribs protested, and looked at him in the moonlight. “You could not.”

“I could try.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thora said softly. “Although I appreciate the sentiment. Anders deserves someone who can give him her whole heart, and I never could. You know that.”

“Do I?” She could hear the bitterness and hurt in his voice. “It’s been a long time since I could be sure of that.”

“Wait, are you blaming me for all the distance there’s been between us?”

“No. Not really. But … I explained why I had to take off the amulet. Maker’s breath, it was the only reason we were apart in the first place—I had to create an heir. And I felt for the woman. How would you like to have tried to get pregnant with the reminder that someone else got there first dangling in your face?”

“I understood that,” Thora protested.

“You said you did, but then you froze me out. You had less and less to say every time I went to Amaranthine, and I … felt so guilty.”

“You should’ve.” He jerked as though she’d hit him, and she said, “Well, maybe not. I don’t know, Alistair. It was so hard knowing that you were going back to her, that you were with her all the time. I was afraid to keep getting hurt every time you left.”

“Do you think that was easy for me? I never wanted to leave in the first place.”

In a small voice, she said, “I didn’t want to face the fact that the situation was what I—we—had made of it. It was easier to be angry with you.”

“Same here. Easier to miss you than try to have only part of you.”

They were quiet for a few moments. Thora leaned back against his shoulder with a sigh. Then she said, “Tell me about your little Duncan. What’s he like?”

Alistair chuckled. “Headstrong. He thinks the whole castle is at his beck and call.”

“Sounds like his sister.” 

“In a lot of ways, yes. He’s a smart little guy, asks lots of questions.” Alistair paused, then said, “Someday I’d like you to meet him.” 

“Me, too.” 

There was another brief silence, then he spoke again, his voice husky. “I asked you a question, in your tent that night. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer.”

“What question was that?” she asked. She knew, of course she did, and her heart pounded.

He could barely breathe, much less speak, but he had to hear her say the words. “Do you still love me?”

She shifted, turning again to face him, ignoring the pain in her ribs, and took his face in her hands. “I will always love you.”

“And I you,” he said. Alistair could see Thora’s beautiful face turned up to him in the moonlight, and he felt warmth spread through him. He drew her back against his chest, resting his cheek on her soft hair, and they sat there for a long time, looking out over the lake and drawing strength from each other.


	32. Turn the Page

The next morning, Thora set most of the group to searching the campsite and surrounding areas for any traces of the little girls. She couldn’t help but notice that Tim’s glances in her direction were more resentful than usual. She sent Oghren and Sigrun with him, to see if they could draw him out a bit. Anders and Xandros and Jens scattered out as well. 

Thora and Alistair sat down at Morrigan’s small fire. The witch looked back at them, her composure unruffled. “To what do I owe the state visit?” she drawled.

“You know perfectly well,” Thora snapped. “They’re not here. They were, and now they’re not. I assume that means Flemeth got what she came for, and has moved on to her next destination.”

Morrigan glanced away, unable to meet Thora’s eyes.

“Morrigan, we’re all in this together,” Alistair put in. “You have to tell us the rest of the plan.”

Clasping her hands together, Morrigan began as though she were reciting a lesson. “If they are no longer here, I believe that means my mother was able to compound the potion, and the first step has been taken toward drawing forth the soul of Urthemiel.” 

“What does that mean?” Alistair asked. “What happens?”

“I … do not know. The books do not say. ‘Tis an old ritual, and the tales are sketchy, at best.” Morrigan swallowed. “It is possible that … that my daughter is already changed beyond recognition.”

The other two were silent for a moment as Morrigan struggled to keep her emotions under control. When she seemed calmer, Thora said, “The only way to know is to catch them. Where are they going, Morrigan?”

Looking away again, Morrigan said in a small voice, “Orzammar.”

“Orzammar!” Thora shouted. She got to her feet, standing next to Morrigan, her eyes flashing. “Orzammar!? If you knew they were going there … I could have sent messages. I could have warned Gorim. We could have waited for them there. Morrigan, what were you thinking?”

“I … do not trust easily.”

“After everything we went through together? What did you think I was going to do?”

“I thought you might save your own child and leave mine to her fate,” Morrigan said, her eyes meeting Thora’s. “Would you not have done so?”

“Leave yours to her fate?” Alistair echoed. “She’s mine, too, or had you conveniently forgotten that?” As Morrigan looked at him, he sighed. “Of course you hadn’t. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it, Morrigan? Counting on my fatherly feelings as your insurance policy?”

“Let’s not forget,” Thora snapped, “that none of us particularly wants Flemeth in control of an Old God.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that when you did not kill her,” Morrigan said with controlled fury.

“I said I was sorry about that,” Thora said. “And it’s not as though I knew at the time there would be an Old God child to be dealt with later. At any rate, Orzammar. If we don’t catch up to them in Orzammar, then where?” Morrigan hesitated, and Thora shouted, “Where, Morrigan? We have to know, if we’re going to plan any kind of a strategy.”

“Haven.”

“Riiight,” Alistair said. “Where else would a creepy dark ritual be performed? Maybe once we’re done this time, we could just burn the place down.” He paused, his eyes widening. “Does Flemeth know that the Temple can’t be found?”

Morrigan looked at him inquiringly.

“Leliana has been back there several times—she’s there now, in fact—and the Temple is gone. Does Flemeth need the Temple for her ritual?”

“She may. I am not entirely certain.”

“At least Leliana’s there,” Thora said. “She’ll know Anawyn, she’ll know Flemeth, she’ll—“

“Almost certainly manage to get her foolish self killed,” Morrigan finished. 

Thora rubbed her hands over her face. “If there were more of us, I’d say we should split up. But we may not be able to defeat Flemeth as it is, let alone if there were only half of us.” She took a deep breath. “All right, we head straight for Orzammar. Quickly. See if we can head them off. If not, we can get help from Gorim, maybe some more troops, maybe we can catch her there. Will she need to go to the Deep Roads?” She looked at Morrigan. 

The witch nodded. “Somewhere in the Deep Roads are the bones of a dragon killed not long ago—I believe during your father’s trip there,” she said to Alistair. “Those are the ones she will use.”

“How will Flemeth get your daughter through Orzammar and into the Deep Roads without Gorim doing something?” Alistair asked. “Surely someone in Orzammar will recognize Anawyn!”

Shaking her head, Thora said, “I can’t help but believe that Flemeth will have that planned out, or she’d never dare take Anawyn in there.” Sighing, she said, “No sense wasting any more time here, then. Let’s get a move on.”

It was a subdued march. Thora lagged behind, her injuries bothering her more than she’d like to admit. Oghren walked with her, pretending not to be sober and worried. Morrigan and Xandros were at the head of the column, scouting, as usual. No one watching them would have seen any difference in the way they acted toward one another, but Xandros could feel his pulse quicken every time she came near him, and a smile played around Morrigan’s lips when the elf wasn’t looking.

In the middle of the pack, Jens told Sigrun stories of farm life while she regaled him with tales of the Deep Roads. Tim walked with them, looking unhappy, but eventually was drawn in enough to tell a somewhat pointless epic about his childhood in a fishing village not far from Denerim.

Anders and Alistair fell into step together just ahead of Thora and Oghren, neither man wanting to be too far from her in her current condition.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Anders said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I saw you last night. With her. Are you going to break her heart again?”

Alistair looked over at the mage. He shrugged. “Is she going to break mine? It’s hard to tell.”

“King or Templar or whatever you are, if you hurt her again, I’ll find a way to kill you.” It was said without heat or bitterness, as a simple statement of fact.

Chuckling, Alistair said, “I suspect you would.” He was quiet for a moment. “I underestimated you.”

“I know.”

“You really care for her.”

“She was the first person who ever treated me like a man—not as some kind of worthless runaway, or a weapon, or an abomination waiting to happen. To her I’m just Anders, and that is … rare. Even now.”

Alistair nodded. “She was the first person who ever saw me as something other than my father’s bastard. Strange, for a woman raised as a princess in a society where caste is everything. Ever been to Orzammar?”

Anders shook his head. 

“Brace yourself. It’s not as bad now that Gorim is on the throne—you know he was her Second, right? He’s a … good man. But Orzammar is like nowhere else.”

“I can’t wait,” Anders said dryly.

“At any rate,” Alistair said. “I apologize. For all of it. Peace?”

Anders looked at the King. “Promise to treat her right?”

“Of course. If she’ll let me.”

“Peace, then.” Anders took Alistair’s outstretched hand, shaking it. “Now, you were saying, about Orzammar?”

Alistair launched enthusiastically into the story of Branka and Caridin.

Behind them, Thora watched the handshake, and then the two men talking animatedly, occasionally laughing, and she turned to Oghren, groaning. “Why do I think this turn of events is going to be very awkward for me?”

Oghren slapped his knee, guffawing. “Missy, them two together are gonna drive ya right into a vat of my special brew. I’m just glad to be along to watch the show.”


	33. Dream Walkin'

Orzammar looked just like she’d always thought it would, only bigger and grander and more amazing. Anawyn’s jaw dropped as she stared up into the endless cavern above her head, and she nearly tripped over her own feet. 

The dwarf at the door had been reluctant to let them in without some kind of official authorization, but Granny had convinced him she was just a simple woman trying to educate her grand-daughters, and how could their education be considered complete without a visit to Orzammar, one of the greatest wonders in all of Thedas? The dwarf had agreed to that readily enough, and the massive doors had been opened for them. Much to Anawyn’s disappointment, Granny had hurried them past the statue of her mother in the Hall of the Paragons, although the statue was more representative than realistic. It showed her mother looking more like the pictures of golems Anawyn had seen than like a real, living dwarf. 

Now they were in the midst of the great city itself, hearing the hammering of the smiths at their labors, the voices of the merchants crying out their wares, the roar of the lava river beneath them. Cybele clung to Anawyn’s hand, her golden eyes huge and round in her face. A black-bearded dwarf met them as they exited the Hall of the Paragons. 

“You have business here?”

“Yes,” Granny said, smiling politely at him. “My grand-daughters and I are on a tour of Ferelden, and we came here to see your great city.”

“Ah. Well, then,” the dwarf said gruffly. “You’ll need a place to stay. May I recommend the White Bronto? It’s clean and … quiet.”

“Thank you.” Granny nodded at him, and she moved off into the crowd with the girls behind her. The black-haired dwarf made a notation on the tablet in his hand, and called a messenger to him. They spoke for a moment, then the messenger ran off.

Granny got them a room at the White Bronto, and they settled in. The hour wasn’t overly late, but the close, hot air of Orzammar had all three of them yawning. After a meal of fried nug, which Flemeth and Cybele ate gingerly and Anawyn dug into with gusto (it was one of Uncle Oghren’s favorites), they returned to the room. There was a real mirror in the room, just the right height for the girls, and they jostled with each other to see who would get to brush their hair in the mirror first. As they stood there side by side, Anawyn remembered what Urthemiel had said. She studied the reflections. Their coloring was radically different, Cybele’s heavy fall of black hair and glittering golden eyes an exotic contrast to what Anawyn considered fairly boring red-gold hair and brown eyes. But as she stared, Anawyn thought she could see some similarities. The shape of the nose, for example, was very alike, as well as that of the mouth. 

Cybele caught her eyes in the mirror. “Are you all right? You seem lost in thought.”

Anawyn shook herself. “I’m okay. Just … remembering something someone once said to me.” She busied herself braiding her long hair for bedtime. Even though it was still fairly early, they were all happy to head to their beds, leaving any further sightseeing in the city until tomorrow.

Some time later, Anawyn swam out of the depths of sleep to find herself back in the landscape of the Fade. She looked around her curiously, taking in the shapeless yellow lumps of some kind of earth-like substance and the random columns and stonework that stood around. After a few moments, she became aware of Urthemiel’s musical voice calling for her. “I’m here!” she shouted. “Where are you?”

As she walked through the Fade, the scenery kept shifting, foggy depictions of rooms and landscapes shimmering around her. Eventually, she walked into a large circular room lined with dark, gleaming wood bookshelves filled with leather-bound books. “What is this?” she asked, looking around her.

“I thought you might be more comfortable in this scene,” Urthemiel said, bowing toward her with exaggerated courtesy. “Is the room not to your taste?”

“It’s lovely,” Anawyn said. “But why were there pictures when I walked?”

“You are beginning to be able to control the Fade, to find the people you wish. You were walking through dreams as you approached me.”

“Dreams? Of people I know? Would— Could I find Anders here? Or my father?”

“Not yet, little one. You are young, and new at this. It will take time and training before you can visit people at will. Until then, you should be most careful. You could give someone quite a startling dream without thinking about it.”

Anawyn clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “You mean, I could be someone’s nightmare? That sounds so funny!”

“It would not be to them,” Urthemiel said, but he smiled at her, his beautiful white teeth flashing. “How have you been, my young friend?”

“All right. Cybele’s okay, too.”

“I am glad to hear it. And now you are in Orzammar?”

Anawyn hugged herself in delight. “Yes! Can you believe it? I saw the statue of my mother and tomorrow maybe we can see the Palace and go to the Shaperate and …” She stopped when Urthemiel held up a hand, chuckling.

“Your enthusiasm is most entertaining, but I do not believe you will have all those opportunities. I rather suspect … Granny will rush you through to the Deep Roads.”

“The Deep Roads, ser? But that’s where the darkspawn live. That isn’t safe!”

“No. It will be especially not safe for you, with your Grey Warden blood, and for Cybele, who carries, well, me inside her. They will be drawn to my song.”

“I’ll take care of her, ser,” Anawyn said stoutly. “She’s my sister now, you know. We exchanged blood.”

Urthemiel threw back his head and laughed his musical laugh. “Did you now?” he said when his amusement had ceased. “Most enterprising of you.” As if he had just thought of it, he said, “Last time we met, you asked me a question, and I told you to look in a mirror. Have you done so?”

“I did!” Anawyn said excitedly. “Just tonight! And … I don’t know if I saw what you thought I would see.”

“What did you see?”

“Well, Cybele’s hair and eyes are so pretty and mine are just plain. I look like … a dwarf.”

“But beyond that?”

“Our noses are kind of the same. And our mouths, too.”

Urthemiel nodded, but instead of pursuing the subject said, “Our time grows short. Morning will arrive soon. Listen carefully to what I say to you.” He stared at Anawyn, his eyes piercing.

She looked back at him, unblinking.

“Whatever happens, do not let anyone separate you from Cybele. Not Granny, not anyone else. And do not allow Cybele to be separated from Granny. The three of you must stay together.”

“But why, ser?” Anawyn asked. “Surely I could get a message to the King, and he could protect me and Cybele.”

“And then what would happen? Even if the dwarves were able to defeat Granny now, she would come back for Cybele. As long as I reside inside Cybele, she is not safe. And I cannot be set free without the second potion.”

“When does that happen, ser?”

“After you go into the Deep Roads. This is why you have to stay with them. Do you understand, brave girl?”

After a moment, Anawyn nodded. “I … think I do, ser.”

“It will be tempting to get away, to get to your mother, but in the long run, that will be dangerous for your … sister.”

“Yes, ser. I won’t let anyone separate us.”

“That’s a good girl.” Urthemiel seemed to relax. “It is time for you to go now. But Anawyn?”

She turned at the doorway of the room, looking back at him. 

“You and Cybele do have very similar features. Think to yourself about who else shares those features, as well. The answer may surprise you.”

Anawyn stared at him, trying to figure out what he meant, but before she could ask, the room full of books disappeared into the mists of the Fade and Urthemiel with it.


	34. Promises

Anawyn awoke to darkness, and felt momentarily disoriented. There was something missing, she thought groggily, sitting up. In the dark, she listened, but all she could hear were the sounds of Orzammar, somewhere in the distance—did this city never sleep?—and she felt strange. It took her a few minutes, but she finally realized that it was the absence of feeling that seemed so odd. She could no longer feel Cybele’s presence near her. The thought sent her into a panic, and she jumped up. As she did so, she heard the scrape of a match and a tiny light flared, glowing brighter as someone set the match to a sconce in the wall.

She looked around in shock. This was not the room in the White Bronto she’d gone to sleep in, and Granny and Cybele were nowhere to be seen. This was a lovely, opulent room with costly velvet hanging on the walls and a soft, thick rug at her feet. 

Looking toward the light, Anawyn saw a female dwarf, who bowed immediately when she saw Anawyn looking at her. “Princess,” she said. “It is an honor to have you here in Orzammar.”

“Princess?” Anawyn said slowly. “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong person. I’m just …” She broke off, remembering that she wasn’t supposed to admit to her true identity.

The dwarf woman smiled. “If you will wait here, Princess, I will go and fetch the King. He has been waiting most anxiously for you to awaken.” She left the room, leaving Anawyn standing next to the bed with her mouth hanging open. 

The King? Was her father here in Orzammar? Her heart leaped in her chest before she realized that of course the woman must have been talking about the King of Orzammar, Uncle Gorim. Still, it was comforting to think she’d be seeing any familiar face. Anawyn sat down on the bed to wait.

Before long, the door opened again, and a red-headed dwarf with a pronounced limp came in. “Anawyn!” he said, holding his arms out to her.

“Uncle Gorim!” She clung to him, the first tie to home she’d seen since she ran away. Strictly speaking, she’d only met him once before, a couple of years ago at the opening of the dwarven kingdom of Kal’Hirol that lay beneath Amaranthine. Anawyn’s mother had taken it back from the darkspawn with the help of Anders and Oghren and Nathaniel Howe, long ago when Anawyn was just a baby. “How—Where--?” She had so many questions, she stumbled over her tongue trying to get them out.

“How did I know you were here?” Anawyn nodded, and Gorim smiled. He gestured her toward a pair of chairs, making sure she was sitting before he took his own seat. “I’ve known you were missing for some time,” he said. “As soon as your parents started looking for you, messengers came to me from Kal’Hirol—“

“My parents are looking for me? Both of them, together?” Anawyn couldn’t believe her parents had put their differences aside to look for her. She had suspected for some time that Granny’s story about her mother sending her for training was less than the truth. It was a relief to know she’d been right, and that her mother was behind her.

Gorim’s eyes rested kindly on the girl before him. “They are together. Along with your friend’s mother, and several of the Grey Wardens.”

“Cybele’s mother, too? Does she know my parents?”

“Does she—?” Gorim cut himself off. He had some conjectures of his own on the parentage of the other girl, but knew nothing officially. And if Thora had never told her daughter about the witch, he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to explain any of it. He knew better. “She does,” he said simply.

“But how did you know I was here? In Orzammar?”

“I make it my business to know what’s happening in my kingdom,” Gorim said. “You don’t rule Orzammar effectively unless your network of informants is the best the Stone has to offer. And you are well-known here. As the daughter of our only living Paragon, I would say most dwarves know who you are. There are drawings of you in the Shaperate.”

“Really?” Anawyn was excited and touched. “I didn’t know a half-human could be recorded in the Memories.”

“Once you wouldn’t have been. If you were a boy, you would even now be considered human and not part of Orzammar. But you are your mother’s daughter, so as far as Orzammar is concerned, you are a noble caste dwarf. I wouldn’t try to get yourself elected queen … although if they’ll elect a formerly exiled warrior caste like me with a surface-born wife, who knows what they’ll be willing to consider by the time you’re of age.” He grinned. 

Anawyn smiled back at him. Then the smile faded, and she stood up. “Ser, when my parents come, will you tell them … I miss them?”

“Tell them?” Gorim stood up, as well, alarmed. “You’ll be right here to tell them yourself,” he said. “I can’t let you go back to that woman.”

Shaking her head, Anawyn said, “You have to, ser. It’s not just my safety at stake.”

“Is it the other girl? I’ll have her taken, as well,” Gorim said. 

“No!” Anawyn stared at him in desperation. How could she convince him how important this was? “Granny will come after us,” she said. “Someone will get hurt.”

“You let me worry about that,” he told her. “Dwarves can handle one old woman, even one who smells as strongly of magic as that one.”

“Uncle Gorim, it’s important that she be allowed to take us into the Deep Roads.”

“The Deep Roads?! Do you know what your mother would do to me if I let you go off into the Deep Roads?”

Anawyn shrugged uncomfortably. “I know, ser, but you have to. There are … things … I have responsibilities …” She flailed her arms, looking for the right words, then a calmness came over her. She stood to her full height, looking at him sadly but with composure. “When my mother comes, tell her that I have a duty. I gave my word as an Aeducan that I would be faithful to that duty. And if I recall what I’ve heard about Orzammar correctly, does not the word of one Aeducan bind the entire house?” 

Gorim opened his mouth to argue, but the look in her eyes reminded him exactly whose daughter she was. Sodding stubborn women, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d found Thora appointing him head of House Aeducan less a blessing than a burden. “Are you sure there’s no other way to fulfill this duty?” Anawyn shook her head, and Gorim’s shoulders slumped. “Can you at least tell me to whom you’ve given your word?” 

Anawyn hesitated, the words at the tip of her tongue, then shook her head again. “Uncle Gorim, I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

Gorim buried his head in his hands. Thora’s daughter—and Alistair’s—would know exactly what it meant to bind the entire House of Aeducan to an oath, and having seen the old woman and the other girl himself, he could believe that Anawyn felt an obligation to the dark-haired human child. If the girl was as she looked, Alistair’s child as well as the daughter of the witch Thora had traveled with during the Blight, Gorim could only speculate on the identity of the old woman based on rumors and stories he had heard when he lived on the surface and comments dropped by Thora. And he had to remind himself that Anawyn was no ordinary 8-year-old. Raised as a Grey Warden, she was familiar with and understood things that most little girls her age had never dreamed of. He threw up his hands. “I can have someone keep an eye on you while you’re here. The woman you’re with will never know she’s being watched. Your mother always hated that about Orzammar, that there’s always someone watching, but it’s quite useful.” His eyes darkened. “But in the Deep Roads, I don’t know that I can protect you.”

“I can sense darkspawn,” Anawyn said. “I’ll be fine.”

“In that case,” he said, “take this.” He held out a dagger. It looked old, but had been lovingly cared for. “Your mother used to use this dagger, back when I trained with her. The handle has been treated, so it provides healing as you wield it.”

Anawyn took it gingerly, sliding it into her boot. She stood up. “Thank you, ser. Tell my parents …” She couldn’t begin to say all the things she wanted them to know. “Tell them I’m trying to be worthy of them,” she said, tears choking her throat.

“I think they’ll know that without being told,” he said kindly. “Wait here for a moment, I’ll have you returned to your room as quietly as you were removed from it. She won’t know you were gone.” He stepped out of the room, making the arrangements, and watched Anawyn leave with two members of his special forces with a sigh.

Thora was going to tear his beard out for letting Anawyn go, and Alistair would be helping her, he was sure of that. But an oath was an oath, and he felt deep in his gut that the consequences to keeping Anawyn here would have been disastrous. He would trust the little girl for now … and he would send word to the Legion of the Dead to keep an eye on her. It was all he could do.


	35. Darkening of the Light

Gorim’s men led Anawyn through a maze of passages that she couldn’t even begin to follow, until finally they arrived at the back entrance of the White Bronto. They snuck her up the stairs and back into the room. Anawyn curled up on the rather hard bed next to Cybele, one hand reaching out to touch her friend. It was reassuring to hear Cybele’s soft breathing. Closing her eyes, Anawyn drifted back to sleep, unaware of the eyes watching her from the other side of the room.

In what felt like the morning, although it was hard to tell in Orzammar what time it might be on the surface, Anawyn woke feeling completely unrefreshed. Given the eventful night she’d had, she supposed it wasn’t too surprising that she didn’t feel exactly rested. 

After a breakfast of some kind of lichen bread that even Anawyn was wary of, Granny paid for their room and they went out into the city. True to Urthemiel’s prediction, when Anawyn suggested going to the Shaperate or even stopping at one of the merchants’ stalls, Granny snapped, “We have no time for such indulgences. Come along, children.”

They found themselves at the entrance to the Deep Roads. Granny walked up to one of the guards. “My grand-daughters and I are desirous of seeing the Deep Roads.”

The guard stared up at the strange human lady. “Are you sun-touched?” he asked. “The Deep Roads is no place for children. Besides, I can’t let you by without permission from one of the deshyrs.”

“And where would I find one of those?” Granny stared down at the guard, who looked as though he wanted to argue some more. 

At that moment, the second guard came up and whispered something in the first guard’s ear. The first guard’s eyes widened, and he stared at the second guard, his jaw dropping. “Are you sure?” he said. The second guard nodded, and they both looked incredulous. Then the first guard turned back to Granny. “Apparently you have permission to take these girls into the Deep Roads,” he said, shaking his head. He let Granny and Cybele go past, then, as Anawyn went by, he whispered something to her.

Cybele reached out for Anawyn’s hand as the doors clanged shut behind them and the darkness surrounded them, with its scents of dust, damp, and taint. “What did he say?” she whispered.

“He said _Atrast nal tunsha_ ,” Anawyn said softly. “It means ‘may you always find your way in the dark’.”

“Is it— Why did he say that?”

“I think it’s a blessing. He’s wishing us well on our journey.”

From ahead of them, Granny’s sharp voice cut through the darkness. “I didn’t know you were so familiar with the dwarves, Anawyn.”

“Well, my mother is one,” Anawyn said flatly. What did Granny think, that her mother would have neglected to teach Anawyn about her heritage? 

Granny spoke a word Anawyn didn’t catch and a light appeared above her head, illuminating the passageway. She looked at Anawyn. “I recall your mother having been happy to leave Orzammar behind her. I hadn’t realized she would have taught you so much.” She took a step toward Anawyn. “Care to tell me where you were last night, miss?”

“Um … nowhere?” Anawyn said. “I … couldn’t sleep. So I took a walk.”

“Really. In the middle of Orzammar.”

“Uh, uh-huh.” Anawyn hoped it was believable.

“You weren’t thinking of leaving us, were you?” Granny’s voice was soft but Anawyn could hear the edge in it.

“No, ma’am! I would never think of that. I promise!”

The sincerity in the little girl’s voice was obvious. Granny tapped her foot, the sound echoing through the passage. “Do you expect me to believe that you went for a walk, you met no one, and you were allowed, a human child, to wander alone in the middle of the night?”

“Orzammar doesn’t seem to have much night,” Anawyn said. “There was so much hammering, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Cybele and I managed to sleep perfectly well.”

Anawyn’s mouth opened and shut again. She had no rejoinder to that. 

“So. You’re going to stick with this story?” Anawyn nodded mutely. “Let me see if I can fill in the parts you’ve left out,” Granny said coldly. “You snuck out, met with someone who knew who you were, left a message for your parents, and then snuck back in and thought I wouldn’t notice you’d been gone.”

Her mind racing, Anawyn said, “I thought my mother didn’t want to be contacted while I was training.” Perhaps she sounded a bit smug, catching Granny in that lie. 

Cybele, nearly forgotten in the standoff between the other two, made a small sound, almost a squeak of fear as a loud cry echoed through the Deep Roads, coming from somewhere far down in the earth. Granny glanced at Cybele, then leaned over, her face mere inches from Anawyn’s. 

“That’s right,” she said in a soft, cold voice. But as her eyes locked with Anawyn’s, both of them knew that particular charade was over. Anawyn backed away a step, nearly tripping over Cybele, who was staring at the two of them with widened eyes. Granny held Anawyn’s gaze for a few more moments, then led the way, her back stiff and straight. 

More than anything, Anawyn wished her parents could be with her right now. She pictured her father’s face in her mind, his cheerful smile, his slightly hooked nose. People always told her that she had his smile. And his nose! she thought excitedly. So if she had her father’s nose and mouth, and Cybele’s looked like hers … could Urthemiel possibly mean that Cybele was her father’s daughter, too? But how could that be? Who could Cybele’s mother be, if Anawyn’s father was also Cybele’s father? Did that mean her father hadn’t really loved her mother, after all? Anawyn shook her head, more confused than ever, and clung more tightly to Cybele.

Cybele’s hand reached for Anawyn’s again, and the two little girls moved forward. Anawyn felt more frightened and alone than she had in a long time. Should she have stayed with Gorim, found another way to help Cybele? She gripped her friend’s hand more tightly, that simple contact the only thing keeping her from turning around and running back to the doors of Orzammar.


	36. Always Something There to Remind Me

As the party climbed farther into the Frostbacks, nearer to Orzammar, the tension increased. Morrigan, in particular, grew more and more nervous. 

Xandros drifted toward Morrigan as they climbed, but the witch stiffened on his approach. “I need none of your pity, elf.”

Stung, but trying not to show it, Xandros said, “It’s not pity. I would like to help.”

She whirled, ready to blister him with words, but thought better of it. “Your tracking skills are helpful. Make use of them, and do not waste your energies on a simpering fool who cannot control her maternal weakness,” she said, turning her sharp tongue on herself instead. It was her own traitorous heart, yearning toward her child, longing for the comfort of the elf’s narrow shoulders to lean on, that had her unsettled. No reason for him to take the brunt of that. 

“As you wish,” he said simply, and melted into the forest. 

Behind them, Thora watched with worried eyes. She hoped she understood why Morrigan was on edge, but was terribly afraid there was more to it, something the witch hadn’t told any of them. It was a reasonable fear—when had Morrigan ever shared more than she absolutely needed to of any plan? Thora hoped against hope that Gorim, with his remarkable efficiency, had Anawyn with him, but something in her gut told her it wasn’t going to be that easy. She glanced around at the trees, wondering about the location of a long-ago camp. It wasn’t far from here, if she recalled correctly.

There was little sound from any of those behind her. The pace through the mountains had been faster, the climb more tiring, and the mood darker. Occasionally someone would comment on a feature of the scenery, or the weather, but these sallies mostly received grunts in response.

Thora called camp as the light turned purple. Much later and they wouldn’t have been able to see a tree before they ran into it, up in these heavily forested mountains. True to her memory, they found the clearing not far off the road. Jens and Sigrun, who tended to set up the tents together, breathed sighs of relief that they didn’t have to create a big enough space for the whole camp. They got to work. 

“Commander,” called Xandros from the ashes of the fire. “Someone has been here.”

“Yes,” Thora said. “I believe we camped here once during the Blight.” She was intensely aware of Alistair behind her, and she was sure she was blushing.

“No, Commander,” Xandros said. “Someone camped here just a few days ago.” He pointed to the bits of unburned wood left in the fire pit, and the scattering of pine needles where bedrolls had lain. Three of them.

Morrigan’s eyes caught Thora’s in the fading light. Realistically, what good could it do to know the girls had been here? But it made them feel closer to catching up, and a spark of hope flared between them.

Everyone scattered to their assigned camp tasks, and Thora took the moment to disappear between the trees. A little ball of light appeared over her shoulder, and she turned to see Anders grinning at her. “No point wandering off into the woods alone, Commander,” he said. “If you got lost, we’d all have to follow Oghren to Orzammar.”

“Think I can’t lead ya there, Sparkle-fingers?” Oghren grunted. “I could find my way from here blind-folded, just have to follow my nose to the finest ale in Thedas. Ah, Tapster’s,” he sighed.

“Exactly how would you do that?” Anders drawled. “I can’t imagine any scent could get past your stench.”

“I think that’s all your flowery perfume, mage,” Oghren returned. He grinned, happily downing some more ale.

Thora left them to it. They could go on like that all night; and there was something she wanted to see. She followed her memory out into the forest, about 30 yards from the campfire. And there it was, revealed by the little ball of light. She traced the initials, T.A. & A.T., in the crudely carved heart, leaning her head against the tree. Here it was, a tangible reminder of the love that had created their child. The bark scraped her forehead as she pressed her head into the tree, wanting to absorb its strength into herself.

She started, feeling the prickling of her skin that signaled Alistair’s approach.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “Is it still there?”

“Yes.” Thora stepped back from the tree, feeling Alistair’s hands close on her shoulders. She leaned against him, glad to have him at her back. Her eyes strayed back to the carving; the little ball of light illuminated something at the bottom of the heart. Thora leaned forward to look, and drew in her breath sharply. “Alistair, look!”

There, below the heart he had carved so long ago, was another set of initials, burned into the bark: A.T.A. Anawyn Theirin Aeducan.

Tears came to Thora’s eyes, looking at the addition.

“She was here,” Alistair said softly, tracing the little girl’s contribution to his artwork. It almost still felt warm from her fire spell. Thora turned in his arms and they embraced, thinking longingly of the day their family would be together again in fact, as it was in the symbol in front of them.


	37. Don't Stop Believin'

The Deep Roads were, to use her father’s word, creepy. Very creepy, Anawyn thought. In the distance, she could hear the dripping of water somewhere, mingled with strange screechings like metal on metal. There was little light, other than the one that hovered above Granny’s head, and so Anawyn saw mostly shadows. The walls they passed were covered in glorious mosaics and carvings, but she couldn’t see enough of them to determine what they were of. The bits she did see looked eerie, half-glimpsed eyes watching her and parts of pictures the more sinister because she couldn’t place them in context. The smells were nearly overpowering—the sourness of the damp, mildewing everything that had been left behind; the dry, dusty odor of the Stone all around them; the increasing noxiousness of the taint. And the crawly feeling of her skin signaling that darkspawn were near was always present in varying levels of intensity. She squirmed with it, the prickling keeping her constantly on edge. 

Granny, seeming unmoved by all of it, led the way, moving steadily ahead through the passageways. Anawyn hoped Granny knew where she was going, because Anawyn herself would never be able to retrace their steps, not this far. 

Cybele held Anawyn’s hand tightly. It was comforting to be together, even though nothing had attacked them as yet. Shadows seemed to skitter away from Granny’s light, little clacking sounds receding into the distance. Anawyn wondered if those were the spiders Uncle Oghren had once told her about … and if the giant spiders were afraid of Granny, how was Anawyn supposed to stand up to the old woman on her own? 

At length, they came into a giant cavern with a large grotto inside, the sound of the water lapping at the edges of the stone reassuring in its normalcy. Granny stopped, lighting several torches that were bracketed to the walls, so they had a decent amount of light for once. There was nothing to make a campfire from, but Granny handed out bits of beef jerky and dried apple—not very much of either, Anawyn noticed. Either they were running out of food, or Granny was planning to be down here for a while.

She and Cybele ate, but with less appetite than they would have expected. Something about the Deep Roads made Anawyn nauseous, and she could barely stomach the food. When they had finished, Granny stood up. “I need to get something from under the water,” she said. She grinned mirthlessly. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you to stay where you are? The light will discourage the darkspawn, but not entirely. Remember your magic. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“We’ll be fine,” Anawyn said stoutly. 

“Of-of course,” Cybele echoed, but with less conviction.

Granny looked at them both for a long minute, looking almost indecisive, then she shrugged off her robe and dove into the pool. 

“Anawyn, are you scared?” Cybele asked.

“Yes,” Anawyn said bluntly. “My mother always says it’s dangerous to pretend you’re not scared. It makes you fight less defensively.”

“Oh. My mother says it’s a foolish human weakness to be scared and we’re too powerful for that.”

“Cybele … what did your mother do during the Blight?” Anawyn held her breath, waiting for the answer. She wanted to know if Cybele’s mother had ever crossed paths with her father … but she didn’t want to know, either.

“Um, I think she traveled. Sometimes late at night, when she’s tired, she’ll talk about camps, and tents, and … Grey Wardens! Say, Anawyn, do you suppose my mother knows your mother?” Cybele looked excited.

“Maybe,” Anawyn said in a small voice. She wasn’t sure if she was happy with that answer or not. “Does— Does she ever talk to you about your father?”

“No. Not really. She didn’t like him much, it sounds like—when she does mention him, it’s always about his stupid jokes or how he’s too soft-hearted. But my mother doesn’t really like men at all. Or people. Sometimes I wonder if she likes me,” Cybele said sadly. “I wish I knew if she even missed me.”

“Cybele, can you keep a secret?”

“I think so.”

“I mean, even from Granny.” Both girls looked toward the water, but it was still and unmoving. Whatever Granny was doing, it was taking a while.

Cybele looked doubtful. “I think I can keep a secret from Granny. Anawyn, sometimes I think … maybe my mother didn’t send me with Granny after all.”

“I don’t think she did.” Anawyn leaned in closer. “Last night, when I was gone, I saw the King of Orzammar.” Cybele’s eyes grew wide, her mouth forming a surprised O. “He’s an old friend of my mother’s, and he wanted to take me—us—away from Granny. Cybele, our parents are looking for us!”

“What? What do you mean? How do you know that?”

“Uncle Gorim told me,” Anawyn said, her voice rising in volume in her excitement. “He said my parents, both of them!, are following us, and your mother is with them, too.”

“How does a dwarf know about my mother?” Cybele wrapped her arms around her knees. “And why would my mother be traveling with your parents?”

“I … don’t know,” Anawyn said, feeling the excitement recede, leaving her feeling deflated. “Uncle Gorim said so.”

“And you trust him?”

“Of course! He was my mother’s Second—like her partner, kind of—for most of her life when she lived in Orzammar. She’s responsible for putting him on the throne.”

“It would be nice to think Mother was coming after me,” Cybele said wistfully. But her face looked brighter. 

Anawyn just hoped she’d be able to protect her friend until their parents caught up. “Please hurry, Mother,” she whispered softly to herself.


	38. A Hard Days Night

Sitting next to Cybele’s limp form, Anawyn held tightly to her friend’s hand, worried. Granny had brought pieces of what looked like dragon bones from the depths of the lake, grinding them into powder to compound the potion, a noxious and disturbing process to witness, and she’d fed it to Cybele, who had choked it down. Anawyn had felt incredibly guilty encouraging her friend to drink something clearly so foul. Its putrid green color and decayed aroma had turned her own stomach. 

Granny had watched Anawyn with sharp suspicion as Cybele drank, but said nothing.

After the last of it was gone, Cybele had clutched at her stomach, fallen to her knees, and crept to her bedroll, collapsing on it into a disturbed sleep. She tossed and turned and muttered to herself. After a while she had stilled, and the silence and lack of movement were more disturbing than the previous flailings had been.

With Cybele between them, Granny and Anawyn stared at each other. “You seem remarkably knowledgeable, young lady,” Granny said sharply. “You know more than I had intended you to, I can see that, but how?”

“I don’t believe I can tell you that,” Anawyn said cautiously. She wasn’t sure how far it was safe to antagonize Granny, but she felt strongly that it would be a bad idea to mention Urthemiel.

“Can’t you.” Granny smiled, but without amusement. “What if I told you you had to, or I would kill you? I can do it easily, you know that, and no one would ever find you.”

There was a faint scraping sound behind Anawyn, like a boot on rock. She coughed, hoping to cover both the sound and the terror that filled her at Granny’s words. Swallowing hard, Anawyn called on all Dennis’s and her mother’s lessons in tactics. “If you kill me now, what was the point of bringing me this far? That would seem like a waste of resources.”

At that, Granny threw back her head and laughed. “’A waste of resources’? And who told you, my fine young girl, that you were a resource?”

Anawyn bit her lip. Nothing she could say was likely to be helpful. “Didn’t you have a reason for bringing me along?”

Granny grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She stood up, bending over Cybele. “She’ll sleep for a while, and be all right when she wakes up,” she said, but Anawyn thought the words weren’t as decisive as Granny usually was. “You should get some rest. We’ll be moving—and quickly—tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Anawyn rolled herself in her bedroll, while Granny did the same. Soon she heard Granny’s light snore, but Anawyn couldn’t sleep. She listened to Cybele’s breathing, which seemed to come harder than usual. She knew the potion would bring Urthemiel closer to the surface, but what would be the effect on her friend? Anawyn couldn’t help but worry.

The torches on the wall slowly burnt down, the shadows dancing along the walls. In a corner near the entrance, Anawyn thought she could see some kind of movement. She sat up, as quietly as she could, straining to see into the darkness. There it was again, a small movement. And then a hand slid over Anawyn’s mouth.

Jerking with surprise, straining to make no noise so as not to wake Granny, Anawyn’s wide eyes searched the shadow. There, she saw it! A small, wiry dwarf with a bald head, face and scalp covered in tattoos. Anawyn recognized some of them—Sigrun, a former member of the Legion of the Dead, had them. Anawyn nodded as her eyes met those of the dwarf.

Taking his hand from her mouth, he grinned, his teeth flashing a surprising white in the dimness. Then he leaned forward, whispering oh, so softly, directly in her ear, “The Legion is with you.”

Anawyn smiled back at him, relief rushing through her, knowing there were reinforcements within reach. The dwarf slipped from the cavern as quietly as he had come, and, relieved, Anawyn lay down again, her hand seeking Cybele’s clammy one.

This time when she woke in the Fade she was prepared. Instead of wandering aimlessly, she closed her eyes, focusing on Urthemiel’s face. When she opened them, she found herself again in the book-lined room. Urthemiel leaned on a desk, smiling at her. “Very nice,” he said approvingly. “You are learning well.”

“Thank you, ser.”

“I can feel that you have succeeded so far, that Cybele has had the next potion.” Urthemiel sighed and stretched. “I can almost taste my freedom.”

“What will happen to Cybele?”

“Now? After the potion?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly, not sure she wanted to know.

“She will show powers she did not have before; she may act differently from the way you expect her to.”

“Will she … still be my friend?”

“I am your friend, so is she. That will not change.” Urthemiel’s beautiful smile shone down on her. 

“Ser? Is Cybele … my sister?”

“Ah, you have discovered who it is both of you favor, have you?”

“But … does that mean …” She wanted to ask, but she didn’t want to ask.

“As to that, I believe you will have to ask your own parents. I am sure they are anxious to see you again.”

“When do I get to go home?” She sounded much younger than eight for a moment, so tired and lonely and scared.

“Soon,” Urthemiel said. “Soon, I promise, my brave little one.” He looked at her kindly.

“What happens next, ser?” Anawyn tried to perk up a bit, but oh, how she wished she could just go find her mother and let her do this.

“Granny will take you from the Deep Roads to a place where you may find unexpected help. Stick closely to your sister.” Urthemiel’s voice and face were fading. Anawyn strained to focus on him, but she caught only one last sentence. “Do not allow Cybele’s blood to be drawn.”

_Blood magic_ , Anawyn thought, shivering unhappily. Could it get any worse?


	39. I Fall to Pieces

There was a heavy rain falling as they approached the vast doors of Orzammar. The guards at the doors were looking distinctly miserable, hunched over in their armor as the raindrops pinged off their back and shoulders.

As Thora approached, one of the guards looked up. “What can I do for you?” Then his eyes widened, and he elbowed his companion sharply. Both of them fell to one knee before her. “Forgive me, Paragon,” said the first guard. “I didn’t recognize you. This sodding skywater!”

“At ease,” Thora said crisply. “Please stand.” When they had done so, she said, “I assume there will be no problem with my companions and me entering the city?” The guards looked over the group. One clearly recognized Oghren, his lip curling as he stared at the red-headed dwarf. 

“He’ll have to leave his weapons behind to come in,” the guard said. “He’s still under sanction from the Assembly—if he gets into any more fights, he’ll be thrown in jail, Grey Warden or not.”

Thora looked over at her friend. “What do you think?”

“Aw, Tapster’s,” Oghren moaned piteously. “Never mind,” he said, sighing. “Someone out here’s gotta have some ale that doesn’t taste like a nug pissed in it.” He shouldered his blade and wandered off.

“Anyone else feel like staying behind?” Thora asked. Xandros caught her eye, and she nodded at him. At home in the forests and fields, even in the human settlements, Xandros in the dwarven cities tended to be a miserable fish out of water. “Keep him out of trouble, please,” Thora said, nodding at Oghren, who was already starting to bellow at one of the surface merchants. Xandros nodded and set off hastily after Oghren.

The rest of them entered the city, bypassing the Hall of Paragons and walking into the great cavern.

Jens grabbed Sigrun’s shoulder as he looked high up in the air to try and find the ceiling. The big man had expected to feel like a giant in Orzammar, and he did when he looked down. But he hadn’t expected to feel like a dwarf when he looked up. It was a dizzying feeling, but one that made him feel oddly closer to his little friend.

The guard stationed just inside the door bowed deeply before Thora. “Paragon, you are expected. With the King’s compliments, do you require an escort to the Palace?”

Thora grinned. An escort to her earliest home? She thought not. She said as much to the dwarf, who bowed again in assent, moving aside for her.

“Alistair, Morrigan, will you accompany me?” Both nodded. “Sigrun, you mind showing the rest of these gaping yokels around the city?” Jens, Dirnley, and Anders all looked a bit shame-faced, but she didn’t blame them. The sight of Orzammar was awe-inspiring, no doubt about it. 

Grinning, Sigrun led the way, the three humans trailing behind her. 

Thora led the way through the Commons and into the Diamond Quarter. The guards at the Palace made way for them, and she walked straight to Gorim’s office—a room she still thought of as her father’s, despite Endrin having been gone for over a decade. The door was opened for her before she even had the chance to knock, and Gorim came forward, smiling, albeit somewhat nervously.

“Gorim, my friend, I’ve come with news that I’m afraid—“ she began, but he raised a hand, cutting her off. Of course, Gorim the efficient would already know, she thought. He was such a better king than either of her brothers would ever have been, she reflected, not for the first time.

“My lady, your daughter has been here,” he said, watching her closely.

Thora swallowed hard. It was at least part of what she had hoped to hear, but she hadn’t realized until now just how much she had counted on Gorim to have her daughter. “’Has been’?” she echoed. “’Has been’? Gorim, why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you keep her here? Why didn’t you--?” The increasing stridency of her voice was cut off when a warm pair of hands closed on her shoulders.

Alistair turned Thora around, shaking her slightly. When she looked up at him, he said, softly but firmly, “Before we fly off the handle, let’s let Gorim finish, shall we? Whatever he did, we both know he had a good reason for it.” He waited until she nodded, her eyes clearing of the panicked glaze that had fallen over them, before letting her go.

Gorim watched this exchange and wished Anawyn were here to have seen it, seen that whatever was wrong between her parents had come a long way toward being repaired. He felt his usual wistfulness that he couldn’t be at Thora’s side, where some part of him still felt he belonged, but he knew she would never have responded to him that way. Her eyes never turned trustingly to him the way they did to the human at her side. Gorim sighed, hoping somehow the two people before him could find happiness together. 

“Gorim?” Alistair prompted, and the dwarf King saw the carefully controlled tension in the human monarch.

Taking a deep breath, Gorim said, “She came here with an old woman and another young girl. Your daughter, my lady?” he asked of Morrigan. One eyebrow raised, she nodded briefly. Gorim saw Alistair’s features tighten as well, and felt an intense curiosity to know how it had come about that Alistair should have two children of nearly the same age with these two very different women. He was sure there must be some story—and equally sure it would be a long time, if ever, before he heard it. “I had the opportunity to speak with Anawyn privately,” he went on, looking back at Thora, “and I told her I could keep her safe. When she refused, I told her I could keep the other girl safe, as well.”

“She didn’t accept that offer?” Alistair asked quietly, painfully.

“No,” Gorim said. “She told me she had a duty, that she had given her word as an Aeducan, and she bound the House to her word.”

Thora drew in a shocked breath. “She did that? Did she know what that meant?”

“She knew enough to bind the whole house to her duty,” Gorim snapped. 

“What duty?” Morrigan’s voice was sharp.

Gorim shook his head. “She didn’t say. She seemed quite protective of the other girl, and I thought perhaps it had to do with her. But Anawyn was very clear that the three of them must be allowed into the Deep Roads—“

“THE DEEP ROADS?” Thora shrieked, losing all control of herself. “Gorim Saelac, how could you let my baby go off into the Deep Roads with the most powerful witch in Thedas?” She seemed about twice her usual height as she advanced on him, her eyes flashing.

“My lady,” he said with his usual calmness, standing his ground unflinchingly. “You have every right to be angry—“

“Angry? By the everlasting Stone, Gorim, angry?!” She waved her arms around in the air, looking for words. 

Gorim held up his hand. “You know that when faced with the word of an Aeducan, there was nothing I could do but accede. A child she may be, but she is … her mother’s child, no doubt about it,” he said, shaking his head.

“She is that,” Alistair said, grinning. He grabbed Thora by the arms, pulling her back. “Love, you know as well as I do you wouldn’t have wanted Gorim to hold her against her will,” he said into her ear as she struggled against him. “It sounds like she has a task to perform, and we have no choice but to trust her.”

Thora swallowed hard. She knew Alistair was right, she knew Gorim wouldn’t have let Anawyn go unless she was dead set on going, but the thought of her child down there in the Deep Roads, with the darkspawn, without her … A ringing rose in her head, and she felt Alistair’s hands gentle on her shoulders, leading her to a chair and pushing her into it. Dimly she heard Gorim again.

“I gave them safe passage, Your Majesty,” he was saying to Alistair, “and sent word to the Legion of the Dead. It was the best I could do in the face of her determination.” 

His voice sounded louder as the ringing receded from Thora’s ears. She raised her head and looked at her erstwhile Second, one of the few people she trusted implicitly, filled with contrition at having distrusted him so thoroughly in this instance. Gorim’s eyes met hers, his look sympathetic and forgiving, and he said, “I gave her your old dagger, my lady, with the healing runes in the handle. And she said to tell you that she was trying to be worthy of you.” He looked at Alistair. “Both of you.”

Alistair’s eyes shone with unshed tears as he said thickly, “She never had to try.” His fists clenched at his sides. “Let’s go after them,” he said, turning to Thora and Morrigan. “Let’s not waste any more time.”


	40. Every Time We Say Goodbye

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as simply rushing headlong into the Deep Roads after their brave daughter. Once they had finished talking to Gorim, getting from him every detail of his meeting with Anawyn, Thora, Alistair, and Morrigan withdrew to discuss their plans.

“Morrigan, do you know how far into the Deep Roads the dragon bones are that Flemeth needs?” Thora asked. “Will she come back through Orzammar, or will she continue on to Haven through the Roads?”

Fists clenched in her lap, Morrigan shook her head. “I do not know. I would suspect that she would prefer to travel through the Deep Roads rather than the snow and ice of the mountains, with the children … but I do not know.”

Thora stared at the witch for a moment. Morrigan’s misery was too obvious to think she was prevaricating. “There’s nothing for it, then. We’ll have to split up.”

“Split up?” Alistair looked startled. “Is that safe?”

“The Legion should be able to help us catch up to them in the Deep Roads, and be there to fight Flemeth if necessary,” Thora said. She sighed heavily. “But if we catch up to Flemeth down there, we’ll have no way to protect Morrigan. If we can’t catch them, we can at least move faster in the Deep Roads, and hopefully get to Haven before Morrigan and the others can going across the mountains. And if Flemeth doubles back into Orzammar, we’ll have Gorim hold her here until we can get back.”

“That all sounds … logical,” Morrigan said with obvious reluctance. “If you are to come upon them below, you will do your utmost to protect my child?” 

Thora nodded. “I promise,” Thora said. “I’ll send you with Oghren, Xandros, Dirnley, and Alistair and take Anders, Jens, and Sigrun with us. That makes you healer for the surface party.”

“What? Why am I going on the surface?” Alistair said.

“Among other things, to protect Morrigan. Do you really want to leave her at the mercy of Oghren and Dirnley as her only warriors?” She raised her eyebrows as she looked at him, hoping he would get the further message that he was going with Morrigan to keep an eye on the witch, as well. He seemed to, for his shoulders slumped and he sighed.

“Point taken.”

“Then it’s decided,” Thora said. “Let’s go tell the others.”

The group of them assembled outside the great doors, where the rain had slowed to a dank drizzle. Thora handed Oghren an extra-large mug of Tapster’s finest, which he guzzled greedily.

“Ah, Tapster’s,” he said. “Always wanted their secret recipe.” He tilted the mug again, sticking his tongue as far in as he could to lick the last drops off the inside.

“When you’re quite finished performing your disgusting carnal acts on that mug,” Morrigan said coldly, “do you mind if we get on with it?”

Oghren grinned madly at the witch, and opened his mouth, but Thora cut him off with an upraised hand. “Enough, Oghren. We can all guess what you were going to say, and I vote you save it for your wife. She has to listen to you.” The gleam in Oghren’s eye didn’t become any less feral, but he kept his thoughts to himself, at least. “So we’re all clear on the plan?” Thora said. “Sigrun, Anders, Jens, Deep Roads with me; everyone else, across the mountains.”

“Lovely,” Anders said softly, shuddering. “Always wanted a nice vacation down in the dark.”

“Be nice to see some of the lads of the Legion again,” Sigrun said cheerfully. 

“Ya think any o’ them blighters’ll still be alive, all this time later?” Oghren demanded.

“Well, no,” said Sigrun, “but while the names change, the people are mostly the same.”

Jens put a hand on the little dwarf’s shoulder. “Will I fit?” he said, smiling at her.

“Don’t worry, salroka. The Deep Roads are big enough for all of us.” She put her hand over his.

“I got yer backside, missy,” Oghren said, leering at Morrigan’s rear in her tight leather skirt. “And the front, too, if’n you need some …” He paused as Xandros turned to look at him. Oghren put up his hands. “Never mind, di’n’t mean nothin’. Don’t get yer leathers in a twist, elf.”

Xandros nodded, a small smile crossing his face, while Morrigan looked unusually flustered.

Thora looked up, finding Alistair’s eyes on her. Suddenly everyone else seemed to find something very interesting to look at in the nearby merchants’ tents—Dirnley was dragged off by Jens—and the two of them stood there alone. 

“Please be careful,” he whispered. “I feel like I’ve only just found you … I can’t lose you again.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Dwarf, remember? I’ve spent more time in the Deep Roads than you’ve spent in the mountains. By far.”

He grinned. “You’re probably right. Maybe I’m the one who should be careful.”

“Yes, you should,” she said, not smiling. “Watch out for Morrigan. I think she’s with us, but there’s no telling what might happen as you get closer to Haven. And Dirnley. I don’t trust him at all.”

“He’s not here to hurt me—not physically, anyway,” Alistair said. He sat down on the low wall that circled the landing in front of Orzammar’s great doors, and pulled her close to him.

“Alistair,” she protested weakly, “people will see.”

“Let them,” he said. “I don’t care. I can’t pretend anymore.” His eyes were dark and intense on hers.

Thora couldn’t help herself, not when he looked at her like that. Cold drizzle, merchants, guards, the rest of their company, all fell away, and her eyes fell closed as his mouth claimed hers. It was a slow, thorough kiss, rediscovering and rememorizing the taste and feel of each other, and they broke apart with reluctance. “I love you,” he whispered. 

She smiled at him, the soft, sweet curving of her lips that was only for him, and that he hadn’t seen since Anawyn was born, and it was as if his own personal sunbeam broke through the clouds and shone down on him. For that smile, he could run all the way to Haven and defeat Flemeth single-handedly.


	41. Lights

Anawyn brought up the rear as they moved deeper and deeper into the dark passages. Since she’d taken that potion, Cybele spent less time clinging to Anawyn’s hand and more time forward with Granny, as if Granny’s determination had infected Cybele. Anawyn felt as though she and the other girl had switched roles—now it was she who crept timidly through the passages, worrying about what lay ahead, and Cybele who looked around each corner eagerly to see what was coming. 

She had lost track of time long ago. It seemed they’d been in the Deep Roads for ages. For an endless time now they’d been walking upward at a steady but gentle incline. When she’d first noticed it, Anawyn had been excited, thinking it meant they’d be out of here soon, but the upward slope went on and on until it was all she could do just to keep putting one foot in front of the other, the rhythm of her steps almost hypnotic.

Suddenly Anawyn heard some small sounds behind her. Stopping, she glanced over her shoulder, hoping the noises were reminders of the presence of the Legion of the Dead watching over her. The thought gave her heart. She peered into the dark, hoping to glimpse a dwarven figure. Nothing appeared, and slowly Anawyn began to notice a crawling sensation on her skin, like the presence of a Grey Warden but at the same time disturbing and unpleasant. Darkspawn!

She raced after the light that shone above Granny’s head, hoping with every step that the darkspawn weren’t right behind her, and that she wouldn’t trip on something in the blackness and fall, only to be overtaken. 

“Granny!” she called breathlessly. “Stop, please, Granny!”

At the speed she was going, she nearly barrelled into Cybele. “Hey, ow!” the other girl protested. “Weren’t you watching where you were going?”

“Darkspawn!” Anawyn said, panting. “I can’t tell … I think they’re getting closer,” she said, her eyes widening as she realized the sensations in her skin were getting stronger.

Calmly, Granny turned. “Is that all?” she asked. “Can you tell how many?” 

Anawyn shook her head miserably. “I think they’ll catch up with us soon.”

“Stand behind me, then, girls, and try not to hit me with a fireball.” Granny said matter-of-factly. Her light blazed up, spreading through the passage. A deep-throated laugh suddenly came from the dark depths of the corridor, echoing around them. Anawyn trembled. She’d heard about darkspawn all her life, of course, but usually in the context of the Blight, or the unpleasantness in Amaranthine with the Architect and the Mother, where they’d been mostly defeated. She’d never expected to be fighting one herself, at least, not for a long time yet, and certainly not in the Deep Roads without any of the Grey Wardens at her side.

Abruptly the passage was filled with movement, as the darkspawn poured forward out of the blackness. Granny barked a few words and a billow of frosty air caught several of the creatures, encasing them in ice. Next to Anawyn, Cybele had her eyes closed tightly. At first, Anawyn thought it was in fear, but then she saw that the other girl was sprouting extra legs. She saw Cybele’s lips moving, chanting something, and suddenly where her friend had been stood a sizeable spider. It skittered forward, spitting venom at the nearest darkspawn. Granny looked at the spider in surprise as it went past her, and her hand reached out to pull the spider back, but as a genlock fell, writhing in agony while the spider’s venom ate away its face, Granny smiled, drawing her hand back and using it instead to shoot a bolt of lightning at a hurlock. 

Anawyn collected herself with an effort, forming a ball of fire in her fingers. Hesitantly, she cast it forward, watching as it caught one of the shorter darkspawn—a genlock? She thought that was right—and singed it. But it wasn’t strong enough to do too much damage, merely enraging the creature, who ran forward screaming at her. She saw that its weapons were sheathed, and its hands reached out to grasp her, to hold her instead of fighting her. Terror shot through Anawyn’s insides. She’d listened in on enough adult conversations to know the worst thing that could happen to a woman was to be taken alive by the darkspawn, even if she’d never understood exactly why. (Usually when the adults caught her listening to those chats, she was summarily hurried out of the room by a grown-up with a very troubled face.) She took a couple of stumbling steps backward, throwing up her hands, and a burst of flame shot forward, frying the genlock to a crisp. Anawyn stared at her hands in wonder. She felt a surge of power rush through her body, and with a wild grin reminiscent of how her father often looked in battle, if someone had been there to see the resemblance, she set her feet and formed another burst of flame, catching some kind of darkspawn mage in the middle of casting a complicated spell.

As the last of the darkspawn fell, Granny looked with pride on Cybele, who was returning bit by bit to her human form. The old woman cast an inscrutable look on Anawyn—the little girl couldn’t tell if Granny was pleased, angry, or disappointed with her.

As soon as Cybele had regained her full human form, Granny nodded briskly at the two girls, who stood surrounded by darkspawn corpses. “Well done,” she said. “Shall we?” She moved on down the corridor, leaving the girls to follow, as if what had just happened was no more notable than sitting down for a snack.

Anawyn and Cybele stared at each other for a moment, their eyes wide, then hurried after Granny and her light. 

They had walked long enough that even the excitement of the darkspawn battle had receded in the constant rhythm of step after step when Granny halted. The girls stopped, as well, in response to terse instructions to stay back.

Peering over Cybele’s shoulder, Anawyn noticed that the light above Granny’s head was dimmer than usual. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell. Dead end, maybe?”

Both girls squinted into the darkness, trying to see what Granny was up to.

Suddenly the light winked out. Anawyn reached out, taking Cybele’s arm, straining to see in the dark.

They heard Granny chanting in a strange language. A huge wind whistled over their heads in Granny’s direction, and a loud boom thundered through the Deep Roads. Light and air rushed in, the fresh scent of trees and grass, and both girls breathed in the welcome scents.

Their eyes blinked and watered in the sudden light, and Anawyn squinted at Granny, whose eyes appeared to be glittering feverishly. 

“What are you waiting for?” Granny said. “We’re here.” She reached out, grasping Cybele’s shoulder, and pulled the little girl along with her as she exited, climbing over the twisted metal of the giant doors, which had been blasted out of place by the force of the wind.

Anawyn hesitated before following, glancing behind her, reluctant to leave even the perception of assistance behind. But nothing was discernible in the blackness behind her, no sound scraping over the stones, and the fresh air was enticing. She shrugged, turning back toward the light and climbing over the wrecked doors.

She emerged onto a mountain path, and for a few moments simply stood there, feeling the sunlight and the breeze blowing strength back into her. It seemed to her as though the oppressive darkness of the Deep Roads had sapped her strength and courage, and now the light and the fresh air were feeding her, renewing her determination. She thought of Urthemiel’s trust, her parents’ pride, Gorim’s reluctant accession to her rights as an Aeducan, and felt the weight of the responsibility on her shoulders now as an honorable duty, not an overwhelming stone chained to her feet. She almost skipped up the path behind Granny and Cybele.

In the distance, far down the mountain, Anawyn could see a human settlement. Smoke rose from the chimney of one of the largest buildings. Not the Chantry—that was the biggest one, Anawyn could tell, sitting at the top of the village, farthest up the mountain. The chimney must belong to the inn, she surmised. The rest of the village was quiet. No bustle, no one out working, no sounds of children playing. From the distance Anawyn could hear a tapping sound, like metal on rock, but that and the smoking chimney were the only signs that the village was currently occupied.

Granny and Cybele were going up the path, away from the settlement, toward what Anawyn couldn’t tell. She could see what looked like a cave opening ahead, and guessed that was Granny’s destination. This must be where Granny intended to complete the spell that would bind Urthemiel. In some ways, it was a relief to get here, to know it would be over soon, but in others… Anawyn shivered, hoping she would be able to handle whatever would be asked of her.

As Anawyn followed the other two up the path, behind her a shadow detached itself from the rock, and a red-headed woman in supple leathers scurried down the path toward the settlement, a look of shock and horror on her face.


	42. Spinning Wheel

The group trudging along the narrow mountain paths was largely silent. Xandros ranged ahead, his usual quiet heightened by the tensions around him. Morrigan accepted his comfort occasionally in the privacy of her tent, but withdrew into herself more and more as they journeyed. He found himself increasingly affected by her emotional state, to a degree he felt was dangerous at times. As the party’s scout, he felt he owed it to everyone to remain somewhat objective and maintain a certain emotional distance, one that was hard to hold on to when he could see the torment written all over the apostate’s face, and felt the tangle of her feelings reach into him as well.

Morrigan was restraining herself to the comparative slowness of human form with very obvious difficulty. Pieces of her would transform under the pressure of her intense need to go faster—her arm would become a wing, a spider’s leg would sprout from her side, the occasional suggestion of a canine tail would peek out from under the hem of her leather skirt. She understood Thora’s reasoning, and certainly had no intention of becoming a mere vessel for all that was Flemeth, but the thought of what the ancient witch could be doing to her child, the guilt that her own intentions toward Cybele had led them to this pass, the friction between the woman she had once been and the mother she had become all writhed in a ball of fire at the core of her being, and all of it urged her to hurry, hurry.

Oghren drank. And walked. And drank some more. If he thought of his family back in Amaranthine, if he worried about the little girl he loved at the mercy of Flemeth, or if part of his mind walked the Deep Roads with his closest friends, he didn’t say, and no one asked.

Sharing both Morrigan’s need for hurry and Oghren’s unguessed concern over the party in the Deep Roads, Alistair felt miserably torn. He’d grown used to feeling Thora’s presence, the hum of her nearness comforting and energizing, and felt disjointed without it. Right now all he felt was Oghren, which was an entirely different sensation. A creature of action at heart, this protracted chase where he was unable to actually do anything made Alistair acutely nervous, and he was aching to pull his sword and just hack away at some horrible monster. Pushing the impulse aside, he sped up, catching up with Morrigan and walking alongside her.

“To what do I owe the great gift of your attention? Lack of your erstwhile paramour to disturb?” she said coolly, but out of habit. There was no venom in the words.

“I thought …” His voice trailed off. He didn’t entirely know what he’d been intending. Just that he couldn’t walk along in silence, alone with his thoughts.

“You did? How enterprising of you. Please, share with me the scintillating results of your mental efforts.” She was actually looking at him, though, and seemed willing to listen. 

Maybe Morrigan, too, could do with a distraction from her thoughts, Alistair realized with some surprise. He’d never thought of her as someone who might need the company of other humans. “I wondered if we could talk about what might happen after the ritual.”

“You mean, in the presumption that we will not all perish?”

“Right. Definitely in that presumption.”

Morrigan looked at him sideways, and he braced for the cutting words, but was stunned when she said, “I am sorry, Alistair. For … all this.”

His step hitched and he stumbled. Nothing in their shared experience had prepared him for her to say something like that to him. Ever. “Uh … that’s okay?” he offered. He was rarely at a loss for a remark, but what are you supposed to say when the world starts spinning backwards?

“Really.” Her eyes narrowed, and he waited for the inevitable jibe, but she said nothing more.

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

At last, Morrigan sighed. “I do not know that it is possible to forecast what might occur after the ritual. It is … I think there is a chance we might want to …” She swallowed hard before going on. “Take the girls to the Tower.”

“The Circle Tower?” He stared at her. “Did I hear that right? Are you advocating not only going there, but taking your—our—daughter there?”

Morrigan nodded, looking profoundly unhappy. “If—and it is a large supposition, to assume that any of us shall survive—“ She broke off at his look, shrugging uncomfortably. “My mother is much, much more than what she seems. She will not take kindly to this pursuit or the endangerment of her goals.”

“And you think she’s just going to kill us all?”

“It is a possibility I cannot discount.” Morrigan studied the tips of her boots. “As I say, if either of the children survive, it is best if they are looked after by other mages. Where there are … books, things to research. Flemeth’s is old magic, and there may be nothing to tell us how to counteract it, even if such a thing is to be done, but if there will be … I would assume it must be at the Circle.” She glanced at Alistair, then away. “The Circle under your reign is not what it once was. No longer a prison, it is becoming a center for scholarship in the magical arts.” At his look of surprise, she nodded, a hint of a smile crossing her lips. “Even I occasionally hear things. You have done much that is good. Surprisingly.”

“Um. Thank you.” The “surprisingly” sounded like her, but the rest of the sentiments? They sure weren’t the Morrigan he knew. He stared at her, looking her over carefully. “Er, Morrigan?” She turned her gaze on him. “You haven’t, you know, been taken over by any ancient magic rituals, have you?”

She gave a small, surprising snort of laughter. “In a manner of speaking, you might say so.” Alistair raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate. “Motherhood, Alistair. I seem to have … been overtaken by what is termed the maternal instinct. It is most disturbing.”

Alistair looked at her, unsure how to respond, and then suddenly the last thing he expected happened. He and Morrigan were laughing together like old friends.

Behind them, Dirnley shook his head. He’d been listening in on the conversation, his expression dark. The conflict that had shown in his face for most of the journey suddenly smoothed out. His mouth compressed in an angry line, and abruptly he turned, disappearing into the trees.


	43. Down Under

The Deep Roads were much the same as always, Thora reflected as the four of them made their way down seemingly endless passages. As far as Thora was concerned, they all looked the same, but where Xandros’s tracking skills shone on the surface, Sigrun’s came to the fore underground. With her customary cheerfulness, the little dwarf wended her way through abandoned dwarf-made corridors, down twisting tendrils of walkways that seemed to have been hewn out by some kind of giant worm, and all of it with utter certainty that she knew the way Flemeth and the girls had gone.

As they emerged from one of the worm-like tunnels into a massive road, they were met by three dwarves in full battle gear. The three saluted as Thora emerged onto the roadway.

One, a deep-voiced woman who reminded Thora a bit of the Paragon Branka, stepped forward. “Paragon,” she said, bowing. “It is an honor to see you in the Deep Roads.”

Thora bowed in return. “I understand you know this is not a visit for pleasure?”

A second dwarf, heavily tattooed beneath a cap of blond curls, smirked at her. “What kind of nug-brain comes down here for fun?”

“Your kind, duster,” Sigrun tossed back. She and the blond dwarf looked one another over for a moment, then nodded, clearly recognizing if not each other, then each other’s Dust Town antecedents.

The deep-voiced woman looked at Thora kindly. “We received word from the King regarding your daughter, Paragon.”

“Do you know where she is?” Thora’s heart was in her throat, but the woman nodded gravely.

“They are far. We have a team with her. Edrick will take you to them.” She motioned to the dwarf with the blond curls, who stepped forward. 

“At your service, Paragon.” Where the woman had used the title with reverence, Thora could hear the sneer in Edrick’s tone. She didn’t blame him—if it hadn’t been for Duncan and the Grey Wardens, Thora would most likely have died, both in form and in fact, as part of the Legion long ago. She felt no need to extract obeisance from them now.

“Thank you, Edrick.” Clasping an arm across her chest, she bowed to him.

Some of the challenge faded from his eyes as he nodded, then, beckoning to them, he turned. “Come along, then,” he said. “Try and keep up.”

Edrick led them through a number of passages where Thora, at least, had never been, and she looked around her at the lost and crumbling glory of her people with sorrowful eyes. In her mind’s eye, she seemed to see the Deep Roads as they should be, filled with the light and noise of the Commons in Orzammar, and her throat constricted.

She didn’t notice Edrick’s eyes on her until he snorted and spat violently on the ground near her boots. “Sodding nobles,” he said in disgust. “Never fails. You get ‘em down here and they start mournin’ for the glory days.”

“Don’t you?” she said challengingly, but she was grateful to him for pushing her thoughts off that doomed track.

He glared at her. “I’m too busy fightin’ to hold every blighted inch of what’s left to be all choked up about what’s gone.”

“You know,” Anders put in mildly, but with steel under his light tone, “the Commander was instrumental in taking back Kal’Hirol, and holding that safe from the darkspawn.”

“Oh, I know it,” Edrick said. “Why you think I’m actually takin’ you where I said? If she was some other noble, you’d all be headin’ straight into the black and tainted mass of ‘em, never to be heard from again.” He chuckled, and set off ahead again at a more rapid pace, whistling cheerfully.

“Charming fellow,” Anders said quietly. His hand fell to its accustomed place on Thora’s shoulder, and she smiled up at him.

“He’s bracing, I’ll give him that.”

The two of them chuckled softly, and Thora smiled to hear the lively chatter—mostly Sigrun’s—of Sigrun and Jens behind her. 

Eventually, Edrick led them to an old thaig which had been taken over by a cell of the Legion. A bald dwarf with his head covered in tattoos came forward and bowed deeply before Thora.

“Paragon, I’m sorry to see you here under such circumstances,” he said.

“I’m sorry that it takes these circumstances to get me down here. The Legion and the Grey Wardens have the same duty—we should work more closely together.” She thought of Kardol, who had stood so valiantly at her side when she defeated the Archdemon. “We owe you a debt that can never be repaid. All of Thedas does.”

“Send us down some really good ale, and we’ll call it even.” The bald dwarf grinned at her, but then the smile faded. “But you’re here for more than an exchange of pleasantries. Your girl is ahead. She’s in good health, but low spirits. The ‘Roads can be like that—some people they just drag down.” He cast a keen eye over Thora. “You’re none too chipper down here yourself,” he remarked.

“No,” Thora said. A vision of Laryn’s bloated form appeared before her, and she shuddered. “Broodmothers,” she said simply.

The bald dwarf nodded sympathetically. “Much as you might be in a hurry, I suggest a rest before we move on. In this condition, even if you caught up, you’d be no match for a woman who smells of lyrium as strong as that one. Powerful,” he said. 

“I can’t stop,” she protested. “There’s no time to be lost. It’s … I owe it to the others, not to let the girls get away if I can help it.”

Anders, his hand warm on her shoulder, shook his head. “I love Anawyn, too, but I don’t have it in me to fight Flemeth, not right now. And neither do you.”

“Fine,” Thora said, near hysteria. “I’ll go myself!” And she was on her way, marching forward with all the determination she had left, when she felt the great hands of Jens clamp down on her shoulders. He pulled her back, looking sorrowful but adamant, and led her to the bedroll Sigrun had already laid out.

“Sleep first,” Jens said simply. “Fight later, and win.”

The combination of his words and implacable opposition and her own weariness was too much to argue with. Thora lay down on the bedroll and was asleep almost immediately.


	44. Truth Is

Dirnley’s absence was noticed late in the afternoon as they slogged through the muddy slush that covered the mountain roads even in high summer. 

Oghren, who had been bringing up the rear, put on some speed and caught up with Alistair. “Where’d that nug-licker go?”

Startled from a reverie that may or may not have involved Thora in a certain state of undress, Alistair looked around. “Which one d’you mean?” he asked. He could see Morrigan ahead, but Xandros and Dirnley were both absent.

“Soddin’ spy yer wife sent along,” Oghren growled.

“Oh.” Alistair looked around again, but could see no sign of his captain of the guard. Odd, that, he thought. Dirnley usually hovered rather close. He’d certainly been breathing down Alistair’s neck earlier, when he’d had that talk with Morrigan, Alistair thought. He tried to think if there was anything in that conversation that might have set Dirnley off, but couldn’t come up with anything specific. Unless it was the acknowledgment of Cybele’s paternity. Which Dorothea already knew about, thanks to Thora blurting it out that night in his office all that time ago, so it didn’t seem likely that was news to Dirnley. Alistair shook his head. Where could the man have gotten off to?

He called to Morrigan, who in her turn gave a sharp raven’s caw. It would have been an odd sound to hear from any throat other than hers. After a few moments, Xandros emerged from the trees not far from her.

The four of them met in the middle of the wet road. “Dirnley’s gone missing,” Alistair said without preamble. “I can’t think why.”

“Wouldn’t be nothin’ to do with you and the Commander suckin’ face back there, would it?” Oghren said.

“Oh, bloody blight!” Alistair swore. “After all this time, really?”

“Will it never work its way into your thick skull that your wife is determined to catch you in wrongdoing?” Morrigan snapped. “Even I can tell as much.”

“But why? She’s already the Queen … what more does she want?”

“Perhaps she believes if she can discredit you, she can be declared Prince Duncan’s regent and have you dethroned.” Xandros spoke mildly, but the words cut sharply into Alistair’s brain.

“Discredit me?” he said in disbelief. “Kings have mistresses all the time!”

“In this case, Majesty,” the elf said, “your … mistress is the representative of a powerful and still somewhat distrusted political faction. The late Teyrn Loghain’s suspicions of the Grey Wardens did not entirely die out with him … or with the Archdemon. Add to that the Commander being a dwarf rather than a Fereldan, and your previous relationship with her, and, while I wouldn’t say it would be enough to dethrone you, it would give rise to many suspicions.”

“And if I didn’t have a Queen? What then?”

“A divorce would be extremely difficult to get,” Xandros said, looking at Alistair with surprise.

“No, I know that,” Alistair said. “I just meant, what if somehow I wasn’t married. Asking for information,” he clarified, when all three looked at him suspiciously. “Not planning anything!”

“All right, if you were not already married, and you were to, say, marry the Commander—”

The words rushed headily to Alistair’s brain. Marry Thora? The stuff of his wildest fantasies. “Yes. If I were to do that.”

“You might face opposition, but it would go better than if you were to commence an affair with her. Marriage would suit your open and aboveboard ruling style. An affair would call into question much of what you have done.”

Alistair stared at the elf. Usually so quiet, it was clear Xandros hadn’t acted as the Grey Wardens’ liaison to the Landsmeet for nothing. He seemed to have an excellent grasp of the political situation … far better than Alistair’s own. “So much for doing good for my people, then,” he said bitterly. “Free the mages, clean up the Alienages, feed the people, encourage communication throughout the kingdom … but certainly don’t sleep with the woman you love.”

“This is nothin’ new, laddie,” Oghren said. “Yer just feelin’ it more ‘cause you let your little Majesty get ahead o’ yer brain.”

“Little?” Alistair protested reflexively.

Oghren just grinned at him. “Wanta see somethin’ that ain’t?”

“No!” Alistair and Morrigan spoke in unison.

“Xandros, can you try and find my ex-Captain of the Guard?” Alistair asked. “We’ll set up camp here,” he said, looking around at the muddy forest. “Somewhere.”

The elf was gone for several hours, returning empty-handed but for a fresh-baked loaf of bread. He broke it into quarters and handed the pieces around. They all ate the soft bread greedily before anyone asked any questions. Field rations had grown tiresome long ago.

At last, Xandros finished his last bite and said, “I found his trail. He backtracked to a little village off the mountain road—I can’t believe he found it, actually. Apparently he purchased a horse—“ He looked at apologetically at Alistair. “He paid for the horse with the last of your Rivaini cheese, Your Highness.” 

Alistair’s eyes widened in outrage. “Do you know how hard that is to get?”

“Yes,” said Xandros drily, “And so did the villagers. Apparently it was a very nice horse. Then he headed down the mountains to the north and east.”

“Toward Denerim,” Alistair said glumly.

“Exactly so.”

“Bloody sodding nug-humping blighted son-of-a-bitch!”

The rest of them all stared at the King for a moment, then Oghren roared with laughter. “Yer Majesty, never thought I’d hear myself say it, but I think you’ve spent too much time around me.”


	45. Fear

Despite her exhaustion, Thora slept fitfully. She’d grown accustomed to Alistair’s presence all over her skin like a warm blanket. Without it, she felt cold and bereft, and cursed herself for a fool to have let her guard down and have to go through the pain of parting with him all over again. 

After she’d rolled over in the blankets for the fourteenth time, she sat up, deciding that more sleep was out of the question. She got out of the bedroll, pacing nervously, wondering what was so unsettling. Then, when both Anders and Sigrun sat up as well, she knew, her skin prickling. The Legionnaires around her were stirring, too. In the dimness, she could make out maybe three of them, none of them the bald dwarf she’d met when they arrived at the camp.

Then, from out of the blackness of the Roads, a hissing voice. “Commander. We have come for you.”

“What do you wa—“ Sigrun began, but Thora’s hand clamped down on her arm.

“I have nothing to say to any darkspawn. Come closer and you can speak to my blade. That’s all you’ll get from me.”

There was a sibilant chuckle. “And your daughter? What will we get from her?”

Panic flooded Thora, followed by rage, red and pulsing. She shrieked, a bloodcurdling scream worthy of Oghren, and drew her blades as she ran forward toward the voice, only to feel the sudden and unpleasant constriction of ice surrounding her. Damn that Anders! What was he thinking, holding her here? Encased in the ice, she heard nothing, and saw little, only wavery lines, but she cooled down, both literally and figuratively. However the darkspawn knew about her daughter, rushing headlong into the darkness and Maker-knew-how-many of them wasn’t the way to handle the situation. She fidgeted within the melting ice.

The ice broke apart suddenly, Jens pulling her out of the cracked pieces, and she heard sounds again, crisp in her ears. Looking around, she saw Anders in his accustomed place near the back where he could keep an eye on the battle, Jens with his giant blade at the ready, a couple of the Legionnaires ranged near him, swords out. She shot a glance at Anders, and he looked pointedly toward the dark corridor. Thora strained to see where Sigrun was, following his gaze, but the little dwarf had sunk into the shadows as she moved forward, probably with the other Legionnaire rogues.

“Commander,” came the hissing voice again, “you are wasting time. Our people are well ahead, attacking the party you seek. The old woman we will eat, taking her magic into us … but the little girls …” He gave that harsh, echoing darkspawn laugh that she hated. “Will your girl spew forth hurlocks or genlocks? Or something entirely different?”

Jens glanced anxiously at her, but she shook her head sharply. She would not be enticed, although her mind’s eye presented her with the vivid and unpleasant picture of Anawyn at their mercy, Anawyn being forced to eat their noxious bodies, Anawyn as a broodmother. Turning her head, Thora vomited onto the stone floor, unable to remove that hideous picture.

The laugh came again. “Disturbing, the thought. We will be the stronger for her blood … your blood …” The voice trailed off then. “Do not think your rogue is advancing secretly, Commander. We can sense her—“

“Sense this!” It was Sigrun’s voice. A green cloud of acid billowed from the darkness, Sigrun sprinting away from it. Behind the cloud came the screams of darkspawn and the death gurgles of a body stabbed in the back. The other rogues were doing their work well, apparently.

Sigrun returned to Thora’s side. “I made a good decoy, don’t you think, Commander? The Legionnaire rogues are back there with gas masks. Clever!”

“Indeed.” Thora looked to the Legionnaire warriors, one of whom raised a great hammer. 

“Get the blighters!” he screamed, and he rushed forward. 

Thora nodded to her people to follow him, hoping devoutly that she would finally get her hands on that damned red-shirted darkspawn. It had to be the same one who’d been following them. Third time’s a charm, she thought. 

A light appeared in the corridor, illuminating the battle, and Thora cast a grateful glance toward Anders. She spied the red shirt at the back of the crowd, slashing her way through the other darkspawn to go after the thing.

It turned as if to run, and she whipped the bow she carried from her back, nocking an arrow. She wasn’t up to rogue standards with the weapon, but she trained hard with it for just such occasions. The arrow whistled over the heads of the melee, and in a swift arc embedded itself in the back of the red shirt. She’d been aiming for the back of his leg, but as the arrow severed the spinal cord, she thought for once she didn’t mind her aim being a bit off. Thora pushed her way through the crowd to where the red-shirted darkspawn had fallen, and shoved him over with one booted foot. 

He glared up at her. “You’re too late,” he whispered, black blood frothing at his mouth. “We’ve already got her. She’s our mother now.” He laughed again, and then coughed.

Thora bent, her eyes holding his. “What do you want with me? Why are you here?”

“You think … we don’t know … you?” The light was fading from his eyes. “Killer … killed all … hope … kill … your hope …” And he was dead, his tainted blood seeping out from under him.

She supposed that was true. She had ended their Blight, killed their Archdemon, killed both the Architect and the Mother, which had ended any plans those entities may have had to evolve and enlighten the darkspawn. Perhaps the creatures did hold a particular grudge against her. Her heart in her throat, she thought of her daughter in their vengeful hands and the image of Anawyn as broodmother floated before her again. With a great choking cry, she stabbed down into the darkspawn’s lifeless body, over and over again until it was nothing but pulp. Only then did she look around her and see that the rest of the darkspawn had been defeated.

Sigrun decapitated the last genlock with a sweep of her twin blades and whirled, one of them at the ready, on a shadow behind her. She held her weapon when she saw the bald dwarf they’d met earlier. He grinned at her, pushing past her to Thora.

“Quite a scrap,” he said. “But nothin’ to what went on up ahead.”

“Anawyn?” She clutched at his arm. “What happened?”

He grinned again. “The old lady, she froze ‘em. The black-haired little girl turned into a spider and melted ‘em with her spit. The red-head burnt ‘em to a crisp. Nice little dustup.”

“Fire mage, huh?” Anders said. He tugged at one of Thora’s short red locks. “That fits.”

“How did you get back here so quickly?” Sigrun asked. “The darkspawn leader seemed to think they were attacking Anawyn right now.”

The bald dwarf chuckled. “Darkspawn can’t tell time,” he said. “The little girls held off that other party a little bit ago. They’re gone now.”

“Who’s gone? The darkspawn?”

“The darkspawn’re dead. The old woman and the little girls, they left.”

“Left?” Sigrun stared at him. “How can that be?”

“The old lady burst the doors open. This big wind came whistling through, and boom! All three of ‘em climbed right over, headed out onto the mountain.”

Relief had just started to spread through Thora, but now panic took over again. With a sickening sense of ‘too late’ in the pit of her stomach, she said, “They’ve reached Haven.”


	46. Through the Fire and the Flames

It had been strange sleeping in the cave Granny had brought them to, like being back in the Deep Roads only with the outside air blowing in. Anawyn woke slowly from a troubled sleep, stretching and yawning. Cybele was waking, too, and she smiled at Anawyn. 

“So much nicer to be able to hear the birds, isn’t it?” she said, her face lighting up.

Anawyn nodded, getting up from her bedroll. She looked around the cave. “Where’s Granny?” she asked.

“Not far,” came Granny’s voice from outside the cave. She sounded unusually cheerful. “I have quite a treat for you girls today. Come along.” She waited impatiently as they hurried to perform their ablutions, and then strode off at a brisk pace, forcing the girls to scurry to keep up with her.

They climbed through the mountains for some time before emerging into a large, barren valley in the midst of the mountain peaks. Ruined walkways and parts of crumbled buildings surrounded them.

Granny looked at them, her eyes aglow. “Watch well, children. Few have ever been privileged to see what you will witness today. And lived to tell about it, that is.” She looked around, then led them to a pile of large boulders at the base of one of the cliffs. Gesturing for the two girls to hide behind the boulders, Granny said, “You two should be safe here. Don’t move, don’t make a sound … but watch.” She threw her head back and laughed. “I’m going to have some fun.” Once the two girls were tucked into the pile of boulders, Granny held her hand out over the boulders. She chanted a string of words, and a blue glow surrounded the girls. “The protective ward should prevent any … distractions,” she said. 

Anawyn and Cybele looked at each other, both filled with a nervous eagerness. Granny’s enthusiasm was infectious, and they couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen.

Turning from them, Granny walked into the middle of the open area, where Anawyn could now discern the outline of a circle etched into the ground. Throwing her head back, Granny flung her arms out, calling out a few words in a harsh, guttural language Anawyn had never heard before. As she watched, Granny’s arms began to elongate, her figure to stretch and thicken, and then there was a flash of light the color of flame. When Anawyn’s dazzled eyes could see again, where Granny had been now stood a giant red dragon.

Its (her?) scales glittered in the sun, and Anawyn thought she could see Granny’s amused and knowing expression in the eyes that gazed down at the two girls. Then the giant mouth stretched up toward the sky and a jet of flame burned brightly in the air as the dragon’s great roar echoed through the mountains. Cybele and Anawyn sat watching with their jaws open. 

This was what her mother would have to defeat? Anawyn thought in despair. What Anawyn herself, with or without Cybele’s help, would have to defeat if her parents didn’t arrive in time? She thought of Urthemiel sadly, feeling sure that somehow she would have to let him down. How could one little girl, or even two, take on a whole dragon?

And then, as the sound of Granny-dragon’s roar died away, the sky darkened and another roar split the quiet that followed. Looking up, the girls saw a green dragon wheeling in a large circle above Granny-dragon, its wings blocking out part of the sun. Slowly it circled, coming closer and closer, until finally it landed on the opposite side of the circle from Granny-dragon. 

The two dragons looked at each other for a long moment, then the giant heads bowed, nearly touching the dirt, and they both stood to their full height again. As if a signal had been given, they charged across the circle toward each other.

The green dragon attacked first, one claw striking out at Granny-dragon’s neck, but Granny-dragon dodged neatly, striking the green dragon smartly across the head with her tail as she turned. The green dragon reeled from the blow, staggering backward, and Granny-dragon followed up her advantage with a burst of flame in the direction of the green dragon’s eyes.

The green dragon flung its wing up to protect its eyes, but it gave a howl of pain as the flame singed the wing. Granny-dragon danced back, her eyes alight in exultation, but when the green dragon lowered its wing, its mouth emitted a burst of green poison, and Granny-dragon shrieked, choking and staggering as the cloud hit her. The green dragon lumbered forward, great claws ripping at the air, just missing Granny-dragon’s shimmering red body as Granny-dragon jerked about in pain. As the green cloud dissipated, the girls could see bare dragon-flesh where scales had fallen off from the poison, and Granny-dragon seemed to be moving slowly. 

Anawyn thought maybe the green dragon would win, and then there wouldn’t be anything to worry about. Maybe she could help it along! She gathered fire in her hands, readying a fireball to throw into the battle.

“What are you doing?” Cybele asked sharply.

“If the green dragon won, we’d be free to go home.”

“Or get eaten. Besides, what about that protective circle?” Both girls looked up at the blue glow. “I’ll bet the fire can’t get through.”

Anawyn wasn’t used to this new, more assertive Cybele, but the point was a good one. She let the fire dissipate, then poked at the blue glow with a finger. It was—or at least felt—solid. Cybele shot a tiny blast of arcane energy into the blue glow with one finger, and it was absorbed.

“See?” Cybele said. “She thought of that.”

Anawyn’s shoulders slumped. For a moment, she’d seen freedom before her. Now the task ahead looked just as hard as ever. Wanting to cry, she turned her attention back to the battle between the two dragons.

They’d both slowed down quite a bit. The green dragon’s wings were hanging uselessly, and one eye wept poisonous green tears that splashed sizzling onto the dirt. The Granny-dragon was still pitted from the poison attack, and she was favoring one leg. She blasted another jet of flame from her mouth, the green dragon too slow to get entirely out of the way, and it keened in pain as the fire seared its vulnerable underbelly. It clawed at Granny-dragon, the claws connecting with Granny-dragon’s injured leg, but that mostly seemed to make Granny-dragon mad. She pushed closer to the green dragon, her great wings buffeting at its head, and her mouth closed around the delicate area where the green dragon’s head joined its neck. 

The green dragon reared, screaming in alarm and pain, and Granny’s hold was dislodged, but the girls could see blood streaming from where Granny had bitten out a chunk of the green dragon’s flesh. 

It wouldn’t be long now, Anawyn thought with a sinking heart. Their best chance to escape gone, because the green dragon wasn’t strong enough.

It was floundering now, clearly too injured to fight any longer. With a final lunge and a snapping of her great jaws, Granny-dragon bit through the green dragon’s spine. With one foot on its fallen body, she trumpeted her victory to the skies. It was a terrifying sound, and Anawyn hoped her parents weren’t close enough to hear it. They shouldn’t have to be as scared as she was right now. She wiped away a tear that was falling down her cheek, and when she looked back, Granny in her human form stood there, her eyes closed as she concentrated on healing all her wounds. 

Once she’d done so, Granny knelt at the side of the fallen dragon, filling a vial with its blood. Her grisly trophy in hand, she stood up and looked at the girls. “It is finished,” she said, her face aglow with triumph. “Tomorrow, the ritual will be complete.” She smiled at Cybele with a terrifying glee.


	47. Tomorrow

Anawyn tossed and turned in her bedroll. Granny sat outside the cave keeping the dragon’s blood warm in a cauldron, adding all sorts of disturbing looking—and smelling—things to it. Cybele lay a few feet away, motionless, but Anawyn could tell the other girl wasn’t sleeping, either. 

“Are you okay?” Anawyn spoke quietly, hoping not to be overheard by Granny. She scooted her bedroll a little closer to Cybele’s.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Granny—I don’t know what her plan is for me. I’m scared.” Cybele reached out for Anawyn’s hand. “I wish I could see my mother,” she said. “Just one more time.“

“We could try to get away. Between the two of us, maybe we could …” Anawyn’s voice trailed off. How, exactly, could two little girls defeat a woman who knew how to become a dragon?

“It’s too late for that. She’d catch us. Or stop us.” Cybele turned her head, and in the dimness Anawyn could see the wet shine on her friend’s cheeks. “If you ever … get away, and you see my mother, will you tell her … something I said that sounds nice?”

“Of course.” 

Cybele gave Anawyn’s hand another squeeze, then let go and rolled onto her side, facing away from Anawyn. 

Anawyn lay watching her friend’s quivering back for some time, until Cybele’s muffled sobs faded and she slid into an exhausted sleep. Anawyn rolled onto her back, willing sleep to come, willing Urthemiel to find her in the Fade, hoping desperately that he’d be able to tell her what to do. Because she wasn’t ready to face tomorrow alone.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
There would be no more camping for their little party. Not after that dreadful cry had ripped through the peace and quiet of the mountain forests. Not after Morrigan collapsed upon hearing it, giving her own shriek of defeat and despair. Her strength seemed to have drained away after that. Xandros led her along, shambling after him like one of the walking dead from Redcliffe so long ago. It was easy to see that whatever visceral reaction of panic and uncertainty that ululation of triumph had caused in the rest of them, to Morrigan it meant she had lost. Her daughter was gone. Lost in her own pain and guilt, the spark that fired her had gone out. Xandros hoped that it could be relit, but if her daughter was truly gone, he feared for Morrigan.

Alistair felt no such despair. The cry had filled him with protective energy—he was impatient with his feet in their heavy armored boots because they moved too slowly. Somewhere up there, his daughters needed him, and he had to get there. Quickly.

Next to him, Oghren walked with his battleaxe upraised, glaring around into the woods suspiciously. He looked up at Alistair, bushy eyebrows bristling. “I don’t know what that noise was, but it soddin’ pisses me off. I can’t wait to kill somethin’.”

Alistair nodded. He’d never understood the berserker mentality quite so well as he did right now. Scanning the skyline, he said, “Looks like you’ll get your chance, old friend. We all will. Tomorrow.”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Deep Roads had never seemed so depressing. It should have been good news, Thora thought, trudging along after the bald little dwarf. Knowing that Anawyn was safe from being used as a vessel of darkspawn creation, knowing the little girl was back in the open air, should have made her feel hopeful. She’d never felt so completely helpless as she felt right now, not even when she’d been exiled. At least then the only person she’d had to fail was herself. Now, if she failed … Thora shuddered. The thought was too horrible to bear contemplating.

Jens restrained himself with great difficulty. He had never spent this much time underground—never spent this much time indoors, for that matter—and it felt as though the walls were closing in. He wanted to smash at them, to hack away at the stones until he could see light again, and knowing he could not had him in a tightly controlled panic. Only the reassuring presence of his small friend at his side brought him a measure of comfort. Sigrun’s cheery smile and ongoing chatter were what kept him looking forward, toward the exit where he could breathe again. 

And she knew it. Despite her own flagging spirits, Sigrun had learned long ago that a smile had great power, especially in the Deep Roads and in situations where gloom threatened to close in. She stuck close to Jens, knowing he needed her more than the others did right now. The Commander was one of the few exceptions to Sigrun’s general cheerfulness policy. Thora tended to bite down hard on whatever task was at hand, gripping it and worrying at it until it was done. Only then would she relax. And attempts to cheer her out of her single-minded determination were frowned upon. So Sigrun kept her small talk where it would do the most good—keeping the giant at her side moving ahead.

Anders hung back, unusually for him. He wanted to comfort Thora, but how? He had failed her at every turn. She’d brought him into the only real family he’d ever known, her presence had stilled the wanderlust that gripped him as much as anyone could, and he owed her. If not for her, he’d have been hung by the Chantry—or worse—long ago. They still tried, occasionally, sending their Templars after him, and Thora crossed her arms and glared up at the bucketheads indomitably every time. I should have done more, Anders thought miserably. To save Anawyn, to catch her, to stop this Flemeth. I should have done more. He clenched his hands in front of him, their magic feeling insignificant and useless for once, and vowed that whatever they found tomorrow, he wouldn’t fail either of them again.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The rest of the exploratory expedition had been packing to leave, convinced, finally, that if the Temple of Andraste had ever been above Haven it wasn’t there any longer, when Leliana came rushing breathlessly into the town’s old Chantry, babbling about witches and children and Deep Roads. Fairy tales, again, Leliana? they’d asked. And all her efforts to try and explain were brushed aside as more storytelling. Nothing she’d said could convince them to delay their departure. And so she was alone in the ghost town that had been Haven when the dragon’s great howl of triumph burst into the air. 

Leliana shivered. Whatever that cry betokened, it wasn’t good for the little girl she had recognized instantly coming from the Deep Roads. It had only been a couple of years since Leliana’s last visit to Amaranthine, but that red hair she would have known anywhere, and the Theirin nose was unforgettable. Besides, when a person is named after you, that person’s face tends to be memorable, she thought to herself. The other girl confused and worried Leliana. The black hair brought Morrigan to mind—that was Flemeth leading them, after all, and where Flemeth was, could Morrigan be far?—but the face wasn’t Morrigan’s. Unless Leliana was greatly mistaken, the other girl’s face bore the Theirin stamp as well. And how could that be? She puzzled on it, but all the while she was unearthing her weapons and armor, long disused while her efforts had been focused on Chantry archaeology, cleaning and oiling and polishing.

At last she had everything ready to her satisfaction. The sun was setting, and soon it would be too dark for even Leliana’s sharp eyes to see the paths in the dark, but tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she would save those little girls, if it cost her her life.   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anawyn wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep, so it was a relief to her when she opened her eyes and beheld the Fade. “Urthemiel!” she called desperately, over and over. She willed herself to that library room where she’d met him before, but he wasn’t there.

At last she found herself pulled through the air, landing at last on a mountaintop, looking out over a landscape she didn’t recognize. Urthemiel stood next to her.

“You have done well, so far, little one,” he said, but he sounded distracted.

“But what do I do now?” Anawyn begged, practically crying. “She’s a DRAGON! And a mage, and … Maker knows what else she is. How can I stop her from doing anything she wants?”

Urthemiel tore his gaze from the vista in front of him. “When the time comes, you will see that you, too, have power. That Cybele has power.” His eyes nearly glowed with intensity as he stared at her. “Remember this, my little friend: Power is in your blood.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Anawyn complained in frustration. Why did grown-ups always have to be so … sodding confusing? she wondered. “Can’t you just tell me what to do?”

He sighed. “I must conserve my strength,” he said. “I must go. Tomorrow, you will know what to do.”   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Far down the mountain road leading to Haven, a small figure was trotting as fast as two short legs could carry him. From time to time he would turn and beckon to a slower figure, heavily laden with a large pack.

“Tomorrow!” he said impatiently. “Tomorrow!”


	48. Here with Me

The morning dawned bright and clear and warm. But Anawyn still shivered as Granny rousted the two girls from bed, not bothering to be gentle. Ugly triumph darkened her face. “Let’s get a move on, girls,” she barked, waiting for them at the entrance to the cave as they dressed.

Anawyn double-checked her mother’s dagger inside her boot. Then, remembering suddenly, she dug into the tiny pocket of her pack and withdrew the ring that strange dwarf had given her. She tucked it into a pocket of her leathers, something warning her not to let Granny see it. She was glad of that instinct when she exited the cave. Granny seized her immediately, turning Anawyn roughly around and binding her wrists with a leather thong. She’d have noticed the ring for sure if Anawyn had put it on.

“You won’t be getting in my way today, my fine girl,” Granny hissed in her ear. “I have other plans for you … but later.” Granny’s mouth stretched in a mirthless gloating smile, and Anawyn’s shoulders hunched in misery. Defeated already, she thought. Then she remembered sitting one night at Uncle Oghren’s fire, listening to her favorite story.

_“There was yer mother, thrown half across the roof. Anyone else’d have crumpled up in a heap and given up, but not her. She twisted ‘round, landed on her feet, and was back at that Archdemon before you could blink.”_

_“Then what happened?”_

_“She’d dropped her weapons somewhere on the roof, but she grabbed a sword from somewhere. Pulled it out of the bleedin’ guts of a hurlock, I shouldn’t wonder—“_

_“Oghren!” Aunt Felsi’s voice was scandalized. “What kind of thing is that to talk about in a bedtime story?”_

_“She’s the soddin’ Commander’s daughter, Felsi. Whattaya want, unicorns and rainbows?”_

_“Wasn’t Mother scared, Uncle Oghren?”_

_“Scared? The Hero of Ferelden? ‘Course she was! Downright pissin’ her knickers, she was,” Uncle Oghren shouted, waving his mug in the air. “But do ya think that stopped ‘er?”_

_“Not my mother,” Anawyn said proudly._

She pictured her mother, tiny but strong and powerful enough to face down, and defeat, an Archdemon. Anawyn wasn’t going to let her down, or Cybele. After all, wasn’t an Archdemon a dragon? She flexed her wrists, trying to shift them within the leather thong. It was tied tightly, cutting into her skin. 

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be getting loose,” Granny said as she watched Anawyn squirm. 

“Granny, please let her go,” Cybele pleaded suddenly, surprising all three of them. “I’ll do … whatever it is you need me to do. But please let my friend go.”

Anawyn stared at Cybele, her mouth open. She had no intention of leaving Cybele alone, but if Granny would set her free, maybe she could find her parents and they could work together … The momentary hope was dashed when she looked at Granny’s face. 

“Let her loose so she can go off and get help and come back to meddle in my plans?” Granny threw her head back and laughed. “I like your spirit, girl, but we’ll keep Anawyn right here where I can keep an eye on her.” She grasped both girls by the arms, dragging them off down the path.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana crouched high in the branches of a tree near the mouth of the cave, hardly daring to breathe. First thing she had to do was cut Anawyn’s hands free, but how was she going to get close enough to do that? She carefully let herself down from the tree, slinking along in the shadows as rapidly as possible. How nice it would be to be able to change into a bird or a spider, like Morrigan, she thought. Thinking of Morrigan made Leliana take an extra-careful look around. She couldn’t believe that Flemeth, and a child who looked so much like Morrigan in coloring and bearing, would be here without Morrigan being somewhere close by. But would Morrigan be assisting Flemeth, or would she be trying to protect the child? Leliana didn’t feel comfortable trusting to either possibility.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Granny and the girls returned to the ruins, and the dimly traced circle where the remains of the great green dragon had already been partially consumed by scavengers. Shoving Anawyn roughly to the ground, Granny dragged Cybele with her as she took a good look around the perimeters of the circle. Looking back at Anawyn, Granny sneered at the girl. “Wouldn’t want anyone lurking around and getting in the way, now, would we? You, my fine young thing, have been trouble enough.” 

Anawyn’s eyes met Cybele’s. The dark-haired girl’s golden eyes were filled with misery and fear. Anawyn tried to look reassuring, but it didn’t seem to work.

Granny pulled Anawyn up off the ground, dragging her over to the side of the circle. She put that blue ward over Anawyn again, looking grim as she said, “For my protection this time. I can’t have you getting in the way at the wrong moment.”

Anawyn squirmed and struggled with the leather binding on her wrist, kicking out at the blue glow, but to no avail. Granny watched, her mouth quirked up in a smile at Anawyn’s futile efforts. Then, over Granny’s shoulder, Anawyn spied movement. A shadow, stealthily moving along the rock face. Hastily, she closed her eyes, trying to force out a tear, feeling an immense rush of relief when she heard Granny snort about ‘weak little children’. When Anawyn opened her eyes, Granny had turned away, unslinging the pack from her back and beginning to unload the items for her ritual. Anawyn’s eyes searched for the shadow again, and they widened in shock when the shadow detached itself from the wall for a moment, and her eyes made contact with Aunt Leliana’s. What was she doing here? Anawyn shook her head, trying to clear it. Was she imagining things? Then she remembered they were in Haven. Of course, Aunt Leliana was there, doing her research. Leliana sank back into shadow so quickly Anawyn thought maybe she had imagined it, but then she saw the shadow moving again, creeping in her direction. Anawyn’s heart swelled briefly with hope, but then she realized that Leliana couldn’t get through the blue ward to free her, and her spirits sank again.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Down in the weed-strewn town square of what had been Haven, Alistair felt a familiar tug in his blood that for a moment he couldn’t believe. Then he grasped Morrigan by the arms, shaking her as she stood, listlessly looking around her.

“I feel her, Morrigan! Them!” He sought to trap her gaze with his own, trying to get through to her. “They’re up there. Don’t you feel it?”

The glaze over Morrigan’s eyes shifted, and she blinked, her head perking up. After a moment, poised and listening, her head swivelled, looking up the mountain to where the Temple of Andraste had once stood. “She lives,” Morrigan breathed. “She lives, she lives!” Her voice strengthened with each repetition. She turned to look at Alistair, life and renewal flowing back into her gaze, but her hand reached out, finding and clinging to Xandros’s.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
On the mountaintop, Anawyn gasped as she felt the welcome, familiar presence of Grey Wardens flooding her veins. She wasn’t sure who, although she knew none of them was her mother, but relief surged through her nonetheless. If she could only contact them, reach them somehow, get a message to Leliana for them, anything! Her struggles with the leather tie grew more frantic as her mind raced.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Oghren rubbed his arms. “Good to feel the little cave tick again,” he grunted, his cheeks suspiciously shiny. He swiped the back of his hand across his face, then hefted his axe. “Let’s go kill us an old witch! Er, sorry,” he muttered, looking at Morrigan.

“No, no,” she said, “killing is most certainly required. And well deserved,” she said grimly, her face darkening. “But how? I cannot come near Flemeth, and I do not recommend charging forth, as you are wont to do, you drunken fool.”

“Actually …” Alistair said, staring up in the direction his blood was pulling him toward, “I think Oghren charging forward is exactly what is called for.” And he began to explain his idea as they all drew around him.


	49. Fools Rush In

As Anawyn struggled with her bonds, and the shadow that was Leliana shifted slowly and carefully ever closer to the little girl, Granny drew Cybele into the middle of the circle. The old woman looked up into the sky, turning Cybele so that the sun’s rays fell full on the girl’s face. Then Granny took the vial of treated dragon’s blood and began painting an ancient rune onto Cybele’s face in blood. Cybele stood stockstill while this was happening, but fine tremors shook her body. “What’s going to happen to me?” she whispered, but Granny didn’t answer.

On top of one of the cliffs surrounding them, a giant hawk lit, dropping the human it had carried onto the ground. 

“Hey, watch it!” Alistair hissed. The hawk fluffed its feathers contemptuously as Alistair shifted closer to the cliff’s edge, until he could just peer over. He saw Anawyn, encased in some kind of blue globe, wriggling and kicking. Not far from her stood the familiar figure of Flemeth, bending over another little girl, one with long glossy black hair. His daughters, he thought. Rage welled up in him, and he controlled himself with an effort. Charging in wasn’t his job. 

He watched as Flemeth turned her face up to the sun. Behind him, Alistair heard the hawk take flight, and resisted the temptation to turn and watch her go. Morrigan knew better than any of them what might happen if she stayed within Flemeth’s reach; he had to trust that she would not do anything foolish.

Flemeth flung her arms up. Alistair was too far away to hear what she was saying, but he could see the shimmer in the air as magic gathered around her. Behind her, Cybele quivered, but stood still, and Anawyn redoubled her efforts to get free. 

It was difficult to concentrate properly in this situation, or in his current position, prone on the clifftop, but he did his best, his hands flexing as he channeled his thoughts. He felt the power slowly filling him, and with a sudden sharp chopping motion, he let the power loose.

Flemeth staggered, cut off in mid-word, as she felt the sudden, sickening drain of her mana. She spat a word that was definitely not magical as she took position and tried again, but the mana wasn’t there. Now she chuckled under her breath. “Ah, Daddy makes his appearance, does he?” Moving faster than a woman her age could have been expected to, she reached her pack, digging inside it. 

Anawyn sat still for a moment after the blue globe disappeared, stunned at this unexpected turn of events. Then she remembered her father’s abilities as a Templar. “Father …” she whispered exultantly. She flopped around like a fish, trying to get her knees underneath her, then staggered to her feet, her bound hands flapping uselessly behind her back. 

Off to Anawyn’s right, a small armored figure appeared through an opening in the cliffs, barrelling toward Flemeth with a battleaxe raised and the familiar berserker cry splitting the air. Anawyn’s face was wreathed in a smile now. Father AND Uncle Oghren, both here! Now it would be all right, they’d take care of things. As she thought it, she felt the leather tying her wrists part, and Aunt Leliana’s Orlesian-accented voice murmured in her ear, “Let’s get you out of here, little one.”

Flemeth had drawn a lyrium potion from her bag, uncorking it and swallowing the contents. As her mana regenerated, she scanned the field: Cybele, frozen in fear and magical bonds; Anawyn looking entirely too happy; and the dwarf, the sunlight glinting off the honed edge of his battleaxe. The Templar was too far away to be seen. Flemeth slid from her belt a wicked-looking little curved dagger, crackling with electric energy. With a vicious snap of her wrist, she sent it flying across the field, where it caught Oghren in the chest, the enchanted metal slicing easily into his armor. It hung there, lodged in his breastplate.

He bellowed, starting to say something, but was cut off in mid-word as the electricity runes of the dagger began to take effect. The metal of his armor conducted the electricity, and he twitched and jerked like a rag doll as the electrified suit slowly fried him. The horrific dance slowed, and the indomitable little figure crumpled to the ground, the battleaxe falling from his hands.

“Uncle Oghren!” Anawyn cried. She struggled against Leliana’s well-meaning grasp.

Flemeth laughed wildly, shouting at the surrounding cliffs, “Did you think mana was all I had to draw from, little King?” She watched closely, looking for any clues as to his location, as she drew her power around her, more electricity gathering in the air above her head, waiting to be sent in Alistair’s direction.

In his concealed position at the top of the cliff, Alistair fought the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. All the battles they’d been through together, all the fighting Oghren had done, only to be taken out by an old woman with a dagger. They had considered this possibility, but neither of them had really believed it could happen. If anyone was indestructible, Oghren, with his iron stomach and rage-fueled strength, certainly should have been. It was hard to conceive of Oghren’s appetites quieted once and for all. 

_Alistair was kneeling by his pack when he heard the wet rumble of Oghren clearing his throat. “Something on your mind, Oghren?”_

_“I, uh … was just thinkin’ about Felsi. In case, uh, Flemeth has more up her sleeve than arm, y’know.”_

_“That’s true,” Alistair said, thinking he’d rarely seen Oghren this sober. “You’ll be in the most vulnerable position. If … anything goes wrong, you can count on Thora and me to see that Felsi and your children are taken care of.”_

_“Well, what I was thinkin’ of, Thora can’t really help with. If I don’t come home from this one …” He whispered something in Alistair’s ear. The ex-Templar turned a vivid shade of scarlet, all the way up to the tips of his ears._

_“Oghren!” he said, scandalized. “I can’t do THAT with your wife!”_

_Oghren looked him over, then shook his head sadly. “No, I don’t suppose you could, at that.” He started to turn away, then, brightening, “Maybe you could get Sparkle-fingers to do it.”_

_“You mean Anders?”_

_“You know any other fancy-skirted mages? I’ll give ‘im this, blighter’s almost as good with the ladies as ol’ Oghren.”_

_“I’m sure he’ll be flattered to hear you think so.”_

_“Damn straight.” Oghren chuckled. He started to raise his mug, then put it down again. “You might just wanta tell Anders to watch out for the teeth.” As Alistair’s ears reddened again, Oghren guffawed, then tilted his mug up, draining the contents. “Be good to have the little cave-tick safe again, no matter what it costs.”_

Alistair swallowed hard, looking at the still figure on the battleground. He hoped even more devoutly that Xandros was keeping Morrigan safe. If they’d ever needed a reminder that Flemeth’s skills extended beyond her magic, they had it now.

Down on the ground, Anawyn broke free of Leliana’s grip, racing across the ground to where Oghren lay. Falling to her knees, she reached out, touching his face lightly. The last of the electricity was dissipating into the ground beneath her, the hum of the energy deafening her to the increasing pull of the taint in her blood that signaled her mother’s approach. “Atrast nal tunsha, Uncle Oghren,” she whispered.


	50. Hold My Hand, Hold My Heart

The moment she first felt the faint warmth in her veins that told her Alistair and Anawyn—and Oghren—were near, Thora’s steps quickened until even long-legged Anders had to jog to keep up with her. The sudden searing fire in her veins caught her in mid-step, and she tripped, falling to the ground. Anders reached down a hand to help her up, and she looked at him, the same anguished understanding on both their faces. 

“Oghren,” he said flatly.

“Yes.” She gave him a shove. “Go, Anders! You might still be in time.”

Without another word, the mage took off, boots pounding into the dirt of the path. At Thora’s nod, Jens followed, leaving Thora and Sigrun to catch up as best they could on their shorter legs. Thora felt as though her heart was going to burst—if Oghren was down, what did that mean for the others?   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anawyn put her fingertips gently over Uncle Oghren’s eyelids, closing his eyes. She could almost touch something within him, a vibration of some kind. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, feeling almost as if she were reaching inside the dwarf’s body, a set of invisible fingers searching for something to grasp. Deaf to anything going on around her, her whole being focused on that one weak pulse, Anawyn grasped Uncle Oghren’s essence and held it. 

“Please, help me hold on,” she whispered, but to whom she wasn’t sure.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Flemeth’s fireball hit the cliff about thirty feet to the right of where Alistair lay. As he peeked cautiously over the edge, he saw an arrow fly by her face, and Flemeth turned instantly, the white flash of an arcane bolt flying from her fingers in Leliana’s direction, but the bard had already rolled to a different position and was nocking another arrow.

While Flemeth was momentarily distracted, Alistair gathered his energy and, in a focused blast, drained Flemeth’s mana again. He could hear her screech of frustration as she reached for another lyrium potion. One of Leliana’s arrows flew toward Flemeth’s face as she wrestled with the stopper. The witch twisted away, finally getting the lyrium potion open and quaffing it down. If only they had enough manpower to move her away from her bag. But all they had was him, and Leliana, and two terrified little girls. Cybele still stood unmoving, and Alistair thought she must be imprisoned in some kind of magical binding. 

Mana restored, Flemeth turned her head, scanning the cliffs to look for Alistair, but had to duck another arrow as it sped toward her, whizzing just barely over her head.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Try as she might, Anawyn couldn’t seem to hold on, Oghren’s essence slipping inexorably through her imagined fingers. Then, as warmth flooded through her veins, she looked up, seeing Anders running toward her. “Hurry, Anders,” she murmured, her control slipping further as her focus shifted from the fallen dwarf to the approaching mage. Anders skidded to a stop as soon as he was close enough to get a good sightline, and his hands reached forward, closing on the empty air. Anawyn felt a warm, strong presence searching within Oghren for the dwarf’s essence. She felt the increasing heat of Oghren’s life force as together she and Anders pulled at it. Beneath her hand, still on Oghren’s eyelids, she felt the dwarf’s eyeballs twitching. He sputtered, a deep hacking cough wracking his body, and then grunted in an unmistakably Oghren way. Anawyn looked up at Anders in delight, all the fear and uncertainty and responsibility easing off her shoulders as she saw Anders bounding toward her.

“Little girl,” he said brokenly, stepping over Oghren to swing her up into his strong arms. Anawyn clung to him. 

“Hey! Sparkle-fingers! Think I’d rather be dead than lookin’ up yer skirt,” Oghren whispered hoarsely.

“Told you I didn’t wear anything under these robes,” Anders said, holding out a hand to his comrade. They shared a quick grin before Anders, his small red-headed burden held firmly in his arms, ducked an incoming arcane blast from Flemeth, twisting away toward the safety of the opening in the cliffs.

“Anders, no! I can’t leave Cybele!” she shouted, wriggling to try and get away, but he was deaf to her protests.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Close behind Alistair, Jens came running. He drew his sword as soon as he saw the dragon, charging toward her, and the witch was successfully distracted from Anders and Anawyn, turning on the big man with the greatsword. 

While Flemeth wasn’t looking at him, Alistair concentrated his focus on Cybele, trying to discern what kind of spell bound her and decide if he could remove it. He tried a few techniques that Flemeth had clearly prepared for, the spell sending pain spiking sharply into his mind every time he brushed against it, and had to dig deep into his memory for other ways to dispel the mystical cage surrounding his daughter.

But as Alistair focused on Cybele, Flemeth’s magic, refreshed by the lyrium, flowed powerful and undisturbed. With a wave of her hand, paralyzing Jens, she then turned her attention to Leliana, trying to pin down the bard, who was singing, maddeningly enough, as she nimbly moved from one protective rock to the next. Anders was occupied with Anawyn, dragging her off the field as the girl struggled with him, trying to reach Cybele. Oghren was still recovering from being mostly dead.

In frustration, Flemeth called out the runic incanation for a paralysis glyph, placing it behind a rock directly in the path Leliana was taking. Leliana lurched and almost fell as the glyph caught her, the song stilling in her throat, which suddenly refused to work.

“Silenced so easily, my fine bird?” Flemeth shouted triumphantly, and ice began to form between her hands while Leliana struggled frantically to move.

At that moment, Thora and Sigrun burst onto the field. On a gesture from her Commander, Sigrun blended into the rocks, sidling toward Leliana. Thora, with one heart-filling glance toward Anawyn, safe in Anders’s strong arms, tore across the field toward Flemeth. Berserk rage flooded through her, as though Oghren’s anger had joined with her own and the two combined were propelling her forward.

“And the little mother rushes in to save the day—a little too late,” Flemeth called, pivoting smoothly, and the ice ball between her hands shot toward Thora. The dwarf gasped as she felt the crush of the ice move through her veins. Expecting the imprisoning block of ice that was Anders’s ice spell, Thora was unprepared for the excruciating pain as Flemeth’s ice crept through her very cells, freezing her from the inside out. Thora was almost immediately immobilized, staring at Flemeth with helpless frustration and anger. 

Flemeth began to laugh as she beheld Thora’s frantic eyes. Stepping forward, closer to Cybele, the witch began to chant again, but was cut off by a wild yell from the opening in the cliffs. The Legion of the Dead poured through, hands raised to their eyes against the unfamiliar sun as they took their places in a line of battle.

At the same time, Cybele let out a cry of pain and relief, crumpling to the ground. On top of his cliff, Alistair had finally hit on the right combination to release her. He tried now to dispel the magic turning Thora into a living icicle, but his energy was spent. With despair, he realized the trap he’d fallen into—forgetting Flemeth’s shapechanging abilities, he had assumed his Templar talents were needed more than his fighting skills. And here he lay, far from where those he loved needed his sword and shield in their defense, the cliff far too high for him to leap from. 

Flemeth gaped at the Legion, her eyes blazing. Then her eyebrow quirked. “Oh, yes?” And in a flash of light, a great red dragon stood before them. A nervous murmur went through the line of Legionnaires, but they stood their ground. The dragon’s great head swung ponderously, jets of flame issuing from her nostrils and singing two Legionnaires before they could get out of the way. Lifting her head, the dragon roared her challenge at them all.


	51. Magic Man

Alistair watched as the Legionnaires engaged the dragon that was Flemeth in battle, everything in his being demanding that he get down there somehow and take part in protecting the people he cared about. Peering over the edge, he calculated the odds that he could leap down without breaking every bone in his body. They weren’t good. He clenched his fists, pounding them into the rocky surface of the cliff.

From behind him, he heard a sharp screech, and he turned, seeing the giant hawk glaring at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “If she sees you …”

The hawk shook its head impatiently, and gestured with a wing toward the battlefield.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” The hawk stamped its foot. “Fine, but if she takes you over, don’t think I won’t enjoy chopping off your head.” He let the hawk lift him into the air, only then thinking that threatening your means of transport might not be the wisest idea.

The paralysis spell holding Leliana had worn off, and she was adding her rain of arrows to the Legion’s assault. Oghren, mostly recovered from his near-death experience, was back in the fray as well, his crazed laughter echoing across the field. It was a familiar sound to Alistair, as much a part of the noise of battle as the thwack of arrows and the clash of steel. The various fronts had dragon-Flemeth’s attention fully occupied, so she didn’t notice when the Morrigan-hawk dropped Alistair in a far corner of the field and flew away.   
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cybele lay on the ground, dazed, for a moment after the spell had broken. Then she looked around at the line of dwarves getting ready to battle Granny, and, terror-stricken, scrambled out of their way. She heard her name called in a familiar voice. Anawyn was struggling with a tall blond man in mage robes. The dark-haired girl stood, focusing her energy. She raised her hands to the sky, pulling down its power, and a lightning bolt shot from clouds, hitting the blond mage. He dropped Anawyn and staggered back, his robes smoking where the lightning had hit.

Anawyn got up, bending tenderly over the mage. “Anders, are you all right?”

“Electrified,” he said dryly. “Er, that’s the friend you needed to save?”

Cybele came up to them. “Get behind me, Anawyn, I’ll protect you!”

“No, Cybele, this is Anders! He’s my friend! Don’t hurt him.”

“Oh. Um, sorry.”

“No, not to worry,” Anders said breezily. He looked carefully at Cybele’s face. “No question who your parents are,” he said. Then, with a hasty glance at Anawyn, he corrected himself. “I mean, who your mother is.”

“You know my mother?”

“Yes, I’ve been traveling with her looking for you girls.”

“Oh.” Cybele looked around the battlefield. “Is she here?”

“I don’t know,” Anders said kindly. “Our groups were separated. I don’t know where she is now.”

“Come on,” Anawyn said to them both impatiently. “Let’s go!” She grabbed Cybele’s arm, tugging her toward the battle. “We have to help them!”

“You’re right,” Cybele said, her golden eyes hard. “We have to kill her while she’s immobilized.” But when she turned, she wasn’t looking at the dragon—her focus was on Thora.

“What? Cybele, what are you doing?”

“That’s her, Anawyn! That’s the dwarf from my dream! She kills me!”

“Cybele, that’s my mother!”

“Your what?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Anawyn understood. “You have Urthemiel’s memories. You dream of my mother killing the Archdemon!”

“How did you know the dragon’s name was Urthemiel?”

“Because … because he comes to me in my dreams, too. He wants me to set him free. But we have to kill Granny first, or he’ll never be free. And neither will you.”

Cybele stared wide-eyed at her friend. “You would do that for me?”

“Of course,” Anawyn said. She turned the other girl’s hand over to show the small scar from their exchange of blood. “You’re in my blood.” She remembered something, then, and dug into her pocket, producing the ring that had been given to her by that strange dwarf. “I don’t know what this does, but I think it will help keep you safe. It can be a reminder that whatever happens, you have a sister who loves you.”

Cybele nodded, tears threatening to choke her, and the two girls embraced quickly before turning toward the battle.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Once Alistair was on the battlefield he ran immediately to to Thora. Flemeth’s ice was making its deadly way through her body, freezing the very blood in her veins. Focusing his energies, he sought out the magic that encased her and dispelled it, but the damage had been done. The thawing of her cells was as painful as the freezing had been, and Thora was likely to be out of commission for quite some time. 

Chafing her frozen arms to try and get the blood circulating, Alistair looked around desperately. Jens had joined the battle now, and there were arrows flying from multiple directions, so it looked as though Xandros was there, as well, but Flemeth-dragon was still going strong. Alistair was needed in the fight. If Flemeth wasn’t killed now, none of them would ever be safe again. But could he leave Thora in this condition, a miserable shivering lump? And then a shadow fell over them. Anders knelt next to her, holding a small ball of flame in his hands, and he held it near Thora’s face—close enough to warm, but not to burn.

“You go,” Anders said quietly. “I can watch her and the battle from here.”

With a stricken glance at his love, Alistair went, knowing what she would want above all, could she speak, was for him to save their daughter and stop the Witch of the Wilds.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Flemeth may have been surrounded by seasoned fighters, but it was far from being the first time that had been true. The gleaming sharp claws on her feet caught a dwarf; the scorching flame she breathed singed the back of Leliana’s armor as the bard twisted away at the last second; the dragon’s mighty tail swept Jens off his feet, knocking the wind out of him as he landed heavily on his back. As Alistair charged at her, his shield up and his sword at the ready, it looked almost as though the dragon smiled—and then she stretched out her long shining neck and caught the King of Ferelden between her two rows of giant teeth. 

Alistair cried out, struggling to get free. A fireball crossed over the dragon’s snout—it missed, landing instead near where Sigrun was looking for a chance to slice the dragon’s tendon, knocking the dwarf to the side. But the fireball passed close enough to the dragon’s nostrils to cause her to sneeze, and she dropped Alistair amid the shower of sparks and slippery mucus that sprayed from her nostrils. He rolled weakly over, trying to get away, leaving smears of blood behind him.

Anawyn, dismayed at the poor aim that had led her fireball to hurt Sigrun instead of Flemeth, suddenly remembered her mother’s dagger. She ran toward Alistair, calling “Father! Father!”

Looking up, Alistair saw the dagger flipping toward him, end over end. He had no idea what his daughter was doing on the battlefield or why she was throwing him a dagger, but in his pain-fogged state, he didn’t question it. When the dagger landed in front of him, he picked it up, and immediately felt better as the healing runes embedded in the hilt began to work on him. He saluted his daughter with the blade, and she grinned at him in relief.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The closer they pressed Flemeth, the harder she fought. Oghren growled to no one in particular, “Sodding dragon’s a berserker. Got a lot o’ rage in there.”

If anyone heard him, they didn’t bother to respond. The dwarf’s words seemed right, though—the attackers were losing energy, but the dragon was going strong.

From a knoll where she could see without being seen, Morrigan watched as the attacks went on, stamping her foot impatiently. These fools were going to lose, she knew it, and she was powerless to stop it. She didn’t dare go near her mother, not if she wanted to keep her soul in her body where it belonged. 

Suddenly she heard movement behind her. Spinning around, she saw the grinning face and curly blond hair of Sandal the dwarf.

“What do you want?” Morrigan snapped. “There is nothing to enchant here.”

Sandal shook his head. “Enchantment,” he said, pointing first at her, and then at himself.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, looking at him carefully. “I do not understand,” she said slowly.

Sighing in exasperation, Sandal reached for her hand, folding and unfolding the fingers as though doing a spell. Then he pointed at himself again. 

Raising an eyebrow, intrigued despite her annoyance, Morrigan shot an arcane bolt at the dwarf, and watched as the magic passed harmlessly into his body, and then as the bolt shot from Sandal’s outstretched hand into the ground at his feet.

“I see,” she said, excitement swelling within her. “You can act as a conduit for my magic, allowing me to join the battle without coming near my mother. Is that right?”

His grin widening, Sandal nodded vigorously. “Enchantment!”

“Enchantment, indeed. Well, then, dwarf, let us lose no time.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Dragon-Flemeth was bleeding from a number of wounds, several of her teeth had cracked on impact with Oghren’s blade and were lying on the battlefield, and Sigrun was hard at work with her daggers on the dragon’s legs, although the tendons were well protected by the heavy hide. But the fighters were bleeding and injured and exhausted and dying, as well. Anders had as much as he could do to heal them, and he was running low on lyrium. In the chaos, no one noticed the little blond dwarf as he quietly moved across the field, until he stopped directly between Alistair and the mouth of the dragon.

Alistair’s sword halted in mid-swing, and he stared at Sandal. The dragon roared at the little dwarf, but he stood his ground, the smile never slipping from his face. His eyes locked with the dragon’s, and she found herself unable to look away. Then, mimicking Morrigan’s far-off movements, Sandal raised a hand, palm-up, and a conduit formed between his hand and the dragon’s mouth. A flow of something dark and slippery formed in the air between them, and the dragon’s wings began to droop as Sandal drained her life into him, and through him into Morrigan.

After a moment of standing there dumb-founded, Alistair caught Oghren’s eye, and then, after him, Jens, Leliana, and Sigrun, all of whom shook off their own stunned surprise and leaped at the dragon while she was mesmerized by the dwarf. Sigrun used the advantage to scramble up the dragon’s tail and start to climb up her back.

With a roar, the dragon broke the spell, rearing back. If Sigrun had been two feet higher on Flemeth’s neck, the dwarf would have been thrown off. As it was, she just managed to cling to the dragon. The dragon flashed out a foot, catching Jens with her wicked claws. The big man landed hard, his blood staining the dirt beneath him.

Sandal’s smile remained fixed on his face. He flung both arms wide apart and then pushed them toward the dragon, a powerful mind blast emanating from him. Flemeth-dragon was rocked back, her head flung backward. As she stood, stunned, Sigrun was able to hitch herself farther up the dragon’s neck, finally reaching the dragon’s head. Rearing and twisting, Flemeth caught Leliana with her tail. The bard tried to stand, staggered a few steps, and fell full-length on the ground.

Clinging to the dragon with her legs, Sigrun took her daggers, long and wickedly twisted, and, with a mighty cry reminiscent of Oghren, thrust the blades into the dragon’s eyes.

Flemeth gave a long scream, her head and tail twisting spasmodically, throwing Sigrun off as the neck snapped violently around. Then, with a great crash, the dragon fell to the ground. As the fighters watched in exhausted shock, the form of the dragon receded, and left in the middle of the field only the body of a naked old woman.


	52. It's Not Over

Exhausted, bleeding, and stunned, they all stood staring at Flemeth’s body until the sharp cry of a hawk sounded in the air above them. As the creature touched down she became Morrigan, the feathers falling away in a graceful circle around her.

“What are you all staring at?” the witch snapped. “There is no time to waste. You, you, and …” She pointed at Anders and Anawyn, and then her face softened as she looked at Cybele, whose wide eyes were fixed on her mother. “You. Please.” Cybele smiled shyly. “We must burn her. At once.”

Anders looked up from where he bent over Jens. The big man was surrounded by a spreading pool of blood. “You’ll have to do this without me. He’ll die if I leave him.”

“Fine,” Morrigan said. She looked at the two girls. “You both know how to do a flame blast, yes?” They nodded. “It is most important that you maintain the flame until the body has been completely consumed. Do not think about what you are doing, just do it.”

Anawyn and Cybele shared a look. They focused their eyes on Morrigan, and on her signal, three flame blasts trained on the body in front of them. Anawyn nearly gagged on the smell. She closed her eyes, her face twisted in an effort to avoid the odor. 

When nothing lay before them but ashes, Morrigan called to the girls to stop. She looked at them kindly. “You have done good work,” she said quietly, her eyes lingering on Cybele’s face. Turning to Alistair, Morrigan said, “The ashes must be spread. Far apart. Immediately.”

Looking at Morrigan’s face, Alistair saw something there he’d never seen before: Morrigan was frightened. Which, frankly, scared him. “Oghren!” he called out, and when the dwarf came over, the two of them started shifting helmetfuls of ashes, scattering them as far apart as they could. Some of the Legionnaires joined in, and shortly, where the body had been, was nothing but a scorch mark in the earth, marking the end of the Witch of the Wilds.   
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Once Flemeth’s body had been burnt, Anders called Anawyn over to him. “Where did you learn how to be a healer?” he asked.

“I … didn’t,” she said slowly. One eyebrow quirking disbelievingly, Anders took the little girl’s hand and laid it on a bloody gash in a dwarf’s arm. Immediately, Anawyn felt a tingle in her fingers, and she could almost feel herself pulling the skin back together. She stared first at the healed arm, and then at Anders. “I never knew I could do that.”

“Sure glad ya can, little cave tick,” Oghren said, coming back from an ash-scattering trip. “Saved my life.”

“Uncle Oghren!” she said, hugging him affectionately. 

Oghren grunted under the embrace. “Proud of ya, girl,” he said gruffly.

“If you’re quite done disrupting my lesson,” Anders said in mock irritation, but his eyes rested fondly on both of them. 

“What you got to teach, I don’t think she needs to know,” Oghren said.

“Right. Because I’m the one who’s drunk all the time.”

“You wish!” And Oghren went off to get some more ashes, chortling.

Anders led Anawyn to the next wounded Legionnaire, a red-headed dwarf with burns over most of his back and arms, and they went on together, Anders showing the little girl various healing techniques, until all the wounded were resting comfortably.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
When the ashes had been cleared and the wounded tended to, the Legionnaires approached Thora, who had at last recovered from Flemeth’s ice spell.

“Paragon,” said Eldrick, the word still sounding strange coming from him.

“Commander, please,” she said. “Or even just Thora.”

“Right,” he drawled.

“You saved my daughter’s life. You can call me anything you want. And the Legion … anything you ever need, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“Or on me,” Alistair cut in, coming up behind her. “The King of Ferelden owes the Legion a personal debt.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Eldrick said, grinning. “We’ll collect someday. Count on it.” He saluted Sigrun, who knelt at Jens’s side as the big man lay recovering from his wounds. Sigrun nodded back. 

The Legion lifted those who had fallen in the battle, carrying them back into the Stone, and the wounded limped along as the group of them marched back out of the mountains, their energy increasing noticeably as they approached the entrance to the Deep Roads.

When they had disappeared, Thora turned at last to look for her daughter, who knelt next to Anders at Leliana’s side. He wasn’t letting the young novice help him with Leliana’s concussion, but he was murmuring to Anawyn as he worked. She nudged him quietly as he finished speaking.

“Can I go to Mother now?” 

Anders nodded.

“Mother!” the little girl called, racing across the field.

Thora opened her arms, and finally had her girl in them again. “Oh, my darling, I’m never letting you go again. Except possibly to feed you,” she murmured, feeling how thin the girl had grown.

Anawyn chuckled through the tears that were coursing down her cheeks. “I could sit on your lap and eat,” she suggested, squeezing tighter.

And then a third set of arms was around both of them, Alistair holding on tightly, as though he could keep them from harm just through his presence.

“Father,” Anawyn said, burying her face in his shoulder. 

“Little love,” he said brokenly. “Things are going to be different now, I promise. You never have to run away to see me again.”

She nodded against him. It almost felt like a dream, that she was here with the two of them, and they were both hugging her—and each other.   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
When there was nothing more to do, Morrigan turned to her daughter. Her hands quivered. “A-are you well, my daughter?”

“Yes,” Cybele said.

Morrigan nodded … and couldn’t stand it anymore. Her love for her child broke through a lifetime of Flemeth’s training, and in two steps she had the little girl in her arms. “I have missed you,” she said into Cybele’s hair. “I was … frightened for you.”

“I missed you, too, Mother!” Cybele said. She broke down, clinging to her mother.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
After a few minutes of their familial embrace, Anawyn was restless. She fidgeted until Thora chuckled and let go. “Still never happy unless she’s doing something,” she said, turning to look at Alistair. Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity in his eyes. He laid his hand along her cheek, and she couldn’t help nuzzling against it. This was such a bad idea, and she had to make that point clear … later, she thought. She shivered, the bone-deep cold not quite dispelled yet.

“Are you all right?” he asked in concern.

“A bit chilled, still,” she said. “Can’t seem to quite get warm.” She knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes darkened.

“Let’s see if we can fix that, shall we?” he murmured. His arms tightened around her, and as his tongue slid against hers she felt warm down to her toes. 

Neither of them heard Anawyn as she groaned. 

Oghren guffawed. “Careful whatcha wish for, girlie!” 

Shaking her head in disgust—didn’t they realize people were watching?—she turned to Cybele, who was coming across the field toward her.

“Anawyn,” Cybele said, smiling. “Thank you, my young friend. You have done well.” 

Why was she talking like that? Anawyn thought as Cybele hugged her. She sounded almost like— Her thoughts were interrupted as Cybele broke the hug, stepping back. She looked at Anawyn with wide sea-blue eyes and smiled as blood began to run from her nose and mouth.

“URTHEMIEL!” Anawyn screamed, taking Cybele by the shoulders. “Urthemiel, no!”


	53. One Way or Another

Anawyn held tightly to her friend’s shoulders. She tried to feel beneath the skin, to staunch the flow of blood from Cybele’s nose and mouth, but there was no sensation, nothing to hold on to or fix.

And then Urthemiel spoke in Cybele’s voice. “I … can’t … get out.” The teeth clenched. “Why … what have … you done?”

“What are you doing?” Anawyn asked desperately. “You said you were my friend.”

“I am!” Urthemiel’s eyes were wide in Cybele’s face.

“Then why are you doing this to her?”

Blood spattered over Anawyn’s face as Cybele sighed heavily. “I told you I had to be free.”

“But you didn’t tell me you had to kill her to do it,” Anawyn said, her voice very small.

From across the field, the exchange between the two girls was finally beginning to draw the adults from their concerns. “What are you doing? Come away from her!” Anawyn turned her head to see Cybele’s mother advancing toward them.

“It’s not me, it’s Urthemiel!” Anawyn said, tears rolling down her face and mingling with Cybele’s blood.

Morrigan gasped, taking a stumbling step forward. “Urthemiel?” she said increduously. “How do you know about him?”

“Anawyn, what’s going on?” That was her own mother now, her brown eyes confused and worried.

“You weren’t there! You don’t know … anything!” Anawyn shouted at them all, clinging to Cybele’s shoulders. She could see her friend drooping, her skin paling due to the loss of blood. “He’s trapped in there, he’s trying to get out! Cybele,” she said urgently. “Cybele, don’t let this happen!” Anawyn clasped Cybele’s hand, feeling the ring on it.

Thora looked at Morrigan. The witch’s face was pale. “Morrigan, what’s happening here? What can we do to stop this?”

“He … Urthemiel, the Old God. If he is trying to be free …”

“What does that mean?” Thora asked urgently.

A tear quivered at the corner of Morrigan’s eye, sliding down her cheek. Xandros put a hand on her arm, and she closed her eyes, nearly undone by his silent support. 

Alistair drew closer to the circle, reluctant to touch the girls if Morrigan, who seemed to know what was going on, was keeping her distance. But the instinct to protect his daughters was nearly uncontrollable.

“Can’t we do something?” Thora asked. “Heal her! Stop the bleeding! Anders!” she called out, looking around for the mage. He left Jens’s side to come near, his face paling when he saw the two girls locked together.

“There is nothing to heal. The blood … He is killing her from the inside out.” Tears were rolling unchecked down Morrigan’s face now. “We are too late.”

“Anawyn, I can’t get through,” Urthemiel said in Cybele’s voice. The head tilted in bewilderment. “This should work—why am I not free?”

“Urthemiel, please, don’t do this to her. Please!” Anawyn begged.

“Do you not want me to be free?”

“I don’t want you to kill her! She’s my friend, my sister! Please, Urthemiel!” 

“Ah.” Cybele’s head nodded. “I see. In that case …” The sea-blue eyes studied Anawyn, then the face brightened. “You see, all I need is the blood. This does not have to be the vessel.” Cybele’s hands came up, clamping down on either side of Anawyn’s head, their eyes meeting. Anawyn reeled back, clutching her head, shrieking, and Cybele crumpled to the ground. 

Anawyn fell backward, Thora diving to the ground in order to catch her. Cybele sat for a moment, stunned, then scrambled across the ground to Anawyn.

“Stay back!” Thora hissed at the little girl.

“You don’t understand,” Cybele said. She grasped Anawyn’s hands. “This is because of me. I remember … being a dragon. And you—you killed me.” Her eyes, golden again now, looked straight into Thora’s. “I used to remember that. I could see you, with your sword. I don’t see it anymore. Don’t you see? He’s gone! He’s inside Anawyn now.” Her voice trembled. “We have to hold her here.”

“Hold her? How?” Alistair said, hoping desperately for some kind of practical solution, something he could understand and fight. 

“I could …” Cybele gulped, shuddering. “I could hear him, whispering at me, and I thought … if I could forget, just let go, that’s all he wanted.” She held up her hand with the ring on it. “But this … I felt the ring on my finger, and it was—it held me. To my friend,” she said softly, gripping Anawyn’s hands more tightly. “We need to hold Anawyn, so she remembers.”

“Give her your ring, then,” Thora said urgently.

“No!” Morrigan shrieked, her hands reaching out toward her child. “He can just go back and take Cybele then!”

Thora glared up at the witch. “Isn’t that what you made her for?”

“Thora.” Alistair’s voice was steely and hard. When she met his eyes, a pang of guilt shot through her. “We’re not sacrificing one of my daughters for the safety of the other one.” 

Cybele looked at him then, her mouth falling open as she stared at the big man in the armor and then looked back down at Anawyn. Her lips trembled and she stroked Anawyn’s cheek. “Be strong,” she whispered. “Fight. Anawyn, we’re really sisters.” She looked back up, first at Alistair and then at her mother. Morrigan swallowed and looked away, unable to meet her daughter’s eyes. Her guilt—Cybele’s lifetime’s worth of it—overwhelmed her.

Alistair bit his lip, his hands clenching and unclenching for lack of something to do. “Ah, I have it!” he shouted, and ran for his pack, rummaging through its jumbled contents. He brought out a small leather pouch, and carefully poured the contents into his hand.

“You brought that with you?” Thora asked in a small voice as he knelt next to her.

Gently he lifted Anawyn’s limp body, his fingers fumbling with the catch of the braided chain of Thora’s hair as he fastened his mother’s amulet around his daughter’s neck. He gathered the little girl into his arms, holding her tenderly. “Please don’t leave me, little love,” he whispered into her ear.

Thora blinked tears away, so many emotions flooding through her as she watched her love and their daughter. As she caught Morrigan’s eye, the swirl of feelings congealed into a thick heavy rage. She leaped for the mage, her hand closing around Morrigan’s throat. “What did you do?!” she shrieked, bearing Morrigan to the ground, despite their size difference.

“Take your hands off her!” Xandros shouted. His bow suddenly dangled from his hand, deceptively casual. Thora looked at him, but her hand remained around Morrigan’s neck, squeezing, as the mage struggled to speak. 

“You want her? Come get her!” Thora said challengingly.

“Stand down, Wardens!” Alistair’s voice held a note of command that drew everyone’s attention. He sat with Anawyn cradled in one arm and the other wrapped around Cybele, who instinctively leaned into his embrace. His eyes held a look that forcibly reminded them all that he was the senior Warden of Ferelden. “Drop the bow, Xandros, before you do something we’ll all regret.”

Blinking, the elf did so, backing away with his hands up.

“Thora, this isn’t helping,” Alistair said. “Whatever Morrigan meant to do once upon a time, this wasn’t it. And let’s not forget, she didn’t create this situation on her own.” He stared pointedly at the dwarf, who flushed. “Let her go.”

Thora removed her trembling hand from the witch’s throat, stepping back. “I’m sorry, Morrigan.”

“Your use of force is understandable,” Morrigan said, getting up and brushing dirt off her clothes. She looked at Xandros with a softness in her eyes that he had never seen there before. “Thank you.”

He nodded, his face unreadable.

“We have to do something,” Thora said. “Anders?”

The mage shook his head. She turned to look at Sandal. “Enchantment?”

The little dwarf pointed at the ring on Cybele’s hand. “Enchantment,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Morrigan?”

Tapping her foot thoughtfully, Morrigan stared at the two little girls. “We must take them to the Tower,” she announced.

“Do we have that kind of time?”

Morrigan closed her eyes, reaching out with her hands. “I can cast a spell which will keep Urthemiel and the child in stasis. It will not last forever, but it should get us to the Tower.” She looked at Thora. “Your daughter has great strength. She has held him off this long. Not everyone could do so.”

They were all silent as she murmured the words of the spell, Anawyn’s body writhing under it in clear protest. Her eyes opened once, and Alistair was taken aback to see the brown eyes were a clear sea-blue. It was a relief when they closed again. 

Alistair stood, Anawyn tenderly cradled to his chest. Cybele still clung to one of her sister’s hands. “What are we waiting for?” she asked. “Let’s hurry, please!”


	54. You Snuck Your Way Right Into My Heart

It was a somber party that moved down the mountain paths past the abandoned buildings of Haven. Alistair carried Anawyn’s limp body, cuddling her against his chest. Thora walked at his side, her anxious eyes straying back and forth between the road in front of her and her daughter’s face. She stumbled a lot. Cybele walked on Alistair’s other side at first, but the events of the day caught up with her, and she fell back, too weary to keep up with him.

Before long, Cybele found herself at her mother’s side. She’d found her mother’s behavior bewildering today—switching from the aloof taskmistress Cybele had known to a woman who wept and hugged. Which was the real one? Cybele wasn’t sure. So when her mother cleared her throat in preparation for saying something, Cybele waited, holding her breath, to see which person would be talking.

“Um,” Morrigan began. It was a hopeful start—Cybele had never known her mother to fumble for the right words before. When her daughter didn’t respond, Morrigan went on, “I … am sorry. For what happened to you. It was not my intention—“ She broke off, looking away.

Cybele looked up at her mother. “Was she really my grandmother?”

“Yes. Well … yes.” Morrigan looked uncomfortable.

“Did you really send me to her for training?”

“No!” Morrigan exclaimed. “I would never have left you with her.”

“Where were you?”

“Trying to find you. It is complicated.”

“You could’ve flown to get me. A lot faster than traveling like this,” Cybele said impatiently, looking around at the group trudging their way down the mountainside.

Morrigan sighed. “I had not wanted to have to explain all this to you. Certainly not just yet. But I will!” she added hastily, when Cybele glanced up at her in disappointment. “Flemeth was much older than she seemed. She lived for so long by taking over the body of her daughters. Daughter after daughter, in a line stretching on for generations. And I was to be next. Had I come close enough to rescue you, Flemeth would have been able to … take my body.” Morrigan shuddered. “And everything that I am would have been turned against you. I could not bear to think of that. I—love you, my daughter.”

“Mother,” Cybele said in happy surprise. “Really?”

“Really.” A rare smile shone on Morrigan’s face as she looked down at her daughter. She put an arm cautiously around Cybele’s shoulders, and the little girl pressed against her mother. After a few moments walking that way, Morrigan cleared her throat uncomfortably. “There is something I would like to speak with you about.”

“What’s that?” Cybele asked. She held her breath, waiting to hear all about the big blond man who had called her his daughter. Was that really her father? Did he care for her mother? He seemed to like that dwarf a lot, though. Cybele shuddered thinking of the dwarf’s anger at her and at her mother. For a small person, she’d been pretty scary. 

Morrigan, unaware of the slew of questions filling Cybele’s mind, went on. “There is someone whom I would like you to know better. I think—I would like him to be a part of our lives. I think he would like that as well. Although I admit I have not asked him,” she added, more to herself than to Cybele.

Cybele looked up, her eyes brightening. It must be the big blond man! And he’d come and live with them, and— Her dream-building was halted when Morrigan called out, “Xandros!”

The white-haired elf approached, his eyes soft as he looked at Morrigan, and then at Cybele. Crest-fallen, Cybele tried to return his smile.

Morrigan’s hand trembled in Cybele’s. “I … would like to introduce you to my daughter. This is Cybele. Cybele, this is Xandros. He has been most kind to me.”

The elf bowed seriously at Cybele. “It has been my pleasure,” he said quietly. “It’s nice to meet you, Cybele.”

“Xandros, I wonder if I might ask you,” Morrigan began in a rush, but then the words stopped, as if stuck, and she shook her head. “Perhaps ‘tis not the right time.”

Cybele studied her mother. Morrigan was unusually flushed, but her hand held Cybele’s tightly. If this elf was what had made the difference, if he made her mother happy … Cybele sighed. To Xandros, she said, “Mother wants you to come live with us. She likes you.”

Xandros’s eyebrows flew up, and he looked from Cybele to Morrigan and back again. Then he smiled, his leaf-green eyes brightening. “You may tell your mother that I will have to get leave from the Commander, but there is nothing I’d like better than to come live with you in the forest somewhere.”

Cybele smiled shyly at him. He understood about living in the forest. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad, she thought. 

Morrigan cleared her throat again, her eyes suspiciously bright. “I … Thank you,” she said, looking at both of them. She and Xandros shared a look that Cybele didn’t see, because her eyes had been drawn again to the strong back of the big blond man who carried Anawyn. 

Without intending to speak, Cybele said, “Mother, who is that?”

Morrigan followed Cybele’s gaze, and her heart sank. This was not a conversation she was prepared to have, although she knew now that she should have been. How do you tell your daughter she was created in a blood magic ritual, not from love but from greed and desperation? “That is Alistair,” she said. “He is the King of Ferelden.”

“The King? The King himself came after me and Anawyn?”

Morrigan nodded. “He is Anawyn’s father.” She took a deep breath, then, rapidly, before she could think better of it, she said, “He is also your father.”

Cybele drew in her breath swiftly, and gave a little skip of happiness. Already she loved the gentle man who looked at her so tenderly, who had stopped the dwarf from being mean to her and hurting her mother with just a few words. Then she thought of all the times she had wondered about him, and why he wasn’t with them. “Did he know he was my father?”

“He knew he had a child with me. He did not know how to find us.”

“Why not? Didn’t he want to?”

Morrigan’s eyes rested on her child’s face, so like Alistair’s. “Of course he did. Whatever one may be able to say of Alistair, he is a man to whom family is important.” Cybele’s face clouded with confusion, and Morrigan squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I did not tell him where to find us. It was … a mistake,” she said hesitantly, not willing to cost herself the growing affection in her daughter’s eyes with the full truth. Not now. Maybe some day. “A mistake,” she repeated, “and I am sorry for it. He is the King, so he may not be able to be open with everyone that you are his daughter, but you can be sure he will be … kind to you.”

“Does everyone know Anawyn is his daughter?”

“Yes, but they try not to speak of it. You see, the King has a Queen and a son, as well. His son is the heir to the throne, but Anawyn could be seen as a threat to that. As could you.”

“Oh.” Cybele didn’t entirely understand the politics. She was mostly disappointed that the blond man—Alistair, she reminded herself—wasn’t going to live with them. But the elf seemed nice, too. Cybele clung to her mother’s hand and would have been happy if only Anawyn was awake and free of the Old God’s memories.

At the head of the line, Alistair shifted Anawyn in his arms, which were beginning to ache from carrying her for such a long time. Anders had offered to carry her, but Alistair was having none of that. His daughter, he would hold her, and he would keep her safe all the way to the Circle, even if his arms fell off. Thora wanted to carry Anawyn, as did Oghren, but the little girl was tall enough that the dwarves couldn’t carry her in anything approaching a comfortable position.

A large hand grasped Alistair’s arm. Startled, he looked up and saw Jens next to him. 

“Majesty,” the big man said. “Let me take her for a while.” 

“No. Thank you, Jens, but … no.”

“Majesty, she grows heavy already, even for someone as strong as you. She will need your strength later, and if you use it all now, you will have none left. Let my arms do the bearing so that yours will be free to do the fighting.” The words were softly said, but the tone was firm. Alistair looked down at Thora, to see if she would be uncomfortable, but she was nodding.

“He makes sense, Alistair. I don’t think she’ll know the difference now … but she will later.”

With reluctance, Alistair transferred the little form to Jens’s arms, the big man cradling Anawyn tenderly. “My littlest sister was this small when I left,” Jens said softly, and Alistair was touched to see that the big man was talking to Anawyn. “I used to carry her like this, you know,” Jens went on, and he moved on ahead, still talking to the limp form in his arms as though she could hear him. Sigrun walked with him, but without her usual energetic bounce.

Thora squeezed Alistair’s hand. “You all right?”

“Under the circumstances?”

She nodded.

“I suppose. Let’s get there faster, okay?”

“Okay.” Thora looked back over her shoulder. “Someone is staring holes into your back, you know. You might want to talk to her.”

Alistair looked around, meeting Cybele’s wide golden eyes. “What do I say?”

“Anything. Just don’t ask if she’s going to turn you into a toad.” Thora smiled affectionately up at him.

“Right. I think I can handle that.” Thora gave his hand a parting squeeze, turning toward Leliana, walking on her other side, as Alistair dropped back. Morrigan let go of Cybele’s hand when she saw him coming, drifting off to the fringes of the group, as always.

“Um, hi,” he said to Cybele.

“Hi. Mother says you’re my father,” the little girl said without preamble.

“Yes. That’s true.”

“And Anawyn’s.”

“Yes. I have a son, as well, named Duncan.”

“Mother said so. Are you really the King?”

“It’s hard to believe sometimes,” Alistair said with a smile, “but I really am. Some days I feel like a little boy in a king suit, though.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“When I can do nice things for people, I like it. When it means I can’t spend time with the people I … care about, I don’t like it as much.”

Cybele digested this, walking with him in silence for a moment. “Mother says you didn’t know how to find us. But you wanted to.”

Alistair swallowed uncomfortably. “Of course,” he said, feeling guilty that it wasn’t entirely true. He’d forgotten her, to be truthful. Wanted to forget. 

“Mother likes that elf. Do you like that dwarf?”

“I … do like that dwarf. Her name is Thora. She’s nice,” he said.

“She killed me. I mean, when I was the dragon. I don’t really remember it anymore. I just remember I used to see her in dreams and get scared.”

“Oh! You had the dreams of the Archdemon. I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “I hope you won’t be scared anymore. I know she was mad before, but she was scared about Anawyn. Sometimes being scared makes people act … badly.”

“Anawyn isn’t scared. She’s brave.”

“Yes, she is,” Alistair said softly.

Cybele’s hand stole into his and they walked together, both of them watching Jens as he murmured to the little girl in his arms.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anawyn looked around her at the wild meadow. There were heaps of stone that had once been buildings, and she could hear the waves crashing on rocks far below her. “Urthemiel?” she called out. She kept walking, calling to him, until finally she turned a corner around a ruined wall and found him sitting on a rock, staring blankly ahead of him. “Urthemiel?” she asked quietly.

He looked up, his eyes still far away, then focused on her with a start. “Anawyn,” he said quietly. “I don’t … I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“I … I must be free. You know that, yes? To be with the others, the ones who were freed before me.”

“You mean the Old Gods from the other Blights.”

“Yes. I miss them.”

“But you were going to kill my friend. My sister.”

“Do you think she would have minded?” He looked at her in surprise.

“Minded?” Anawyn’s eyes widened. “Don’t be stupid. No one wants to die.”

“Not even to be the vessel that frees a god?”

“Not even.”

“But she would go to the Fade.”

“Yeah.” Anawyn fidgeted. This kind of talk was usually adult territory. “Are you happy in the Fade?”

“No. The others are not here, I am alone.”

“Cybele would have been alone, too. Do you see now?”

“And what will happen to you?”

“Same thing. And … my mother won’t come to the Fade when she dies. You know that. So I’d never see her again.” Anawyn sniffed, scrubbing at her cheek.

Urthemiel raised an eyebrow, looking back out across the meadow. “This used to be a castle, you know. My castle. It was … beautiful. But now it has fallen, and even in dreams this is all I can   
remember of it, this ruin. Perhaps I have been gone too long, thought too long of my own needs.”

Anawyn didn’t say anything.

“I … do not know what to do now,” he said. “You see, I thought it would be … pleasing. To come to the Fade. So whoever freed me would gain happiness. And now you tell me it is not so.”

“No. It’s not.” She wanted to sit down and bawl. She wanted her mother. And her father. 

His eyes rested on her, confused and perturbed. “It is most strange. I am reluctant to use you to free myself. I must, you know, I must have the blood, must have your death open the Fade for me with the blood, but … I do not want to.”

“Why not?” Anawyn asked curiously.

“You will laugh, because I am a God and you are a human child, but you have … endeared yourself to me. I am loath to see you suffer, even in my service.” He looked back at her. “This is a most disturbing development.”

“What are you going to do?”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze traveling out into the distance again. “I do not know.”

Anawyn sat down on a rock near him, her gaze following his. They sat there for a long time.


	55. Similar Features

The company staggered into Redcliffe Village, exhausted from the grueling pace they’d taken down from the mountains. After such a long time essentially cut off from the rest of the kingdom, it was a shock to return to the bustling little town. Owen, the blacksmith, was crossing the town square with an armload of weapons to be repaired when he caught sight of the group of them. The weaponry fell to the ground as Owen ran toward the group, shouting out, “The King! The King is back!” He went down on one knee before Alistair, bowing his head.

“Owen, please, stand up,” Alistair said. He tried to summon up a smile for the blacksmith. “How’s your daughter?”

“Happy as a lark, Majesty! Got another little ‘un, just born last month.”

“Congratulations. Is Arl Teagan at the castle?”

“He is, ser. He’ll be right happy to see you, I’ll bet. There’ve been rumors …” Owen’s voice trailed off, and he looked from Alistair to Thora and back again, then gave a troubled glance at Morrigan, his cheeks reddening. “Foolishness, Your Majesty,” he said. “All foolishness.”

Thora looked up at the blacksmith, troubled by his discomfort and his unwillingness to look her in the eye. “Owen, is there something you’re not saying?”

“Er, no, ser. Foolishness.” He fumbled with the weapons on the ground, trying to stack them all in his arms again. “Must get back to these,” he said hastily. “Your Majesty, if you’ll excuse me?” Alistair nodded, and Owen scuttled back to the smithy.

Other citizens were crowding around the group now, looking curiously at the two little girls. Thora caught more than one suspicious glance thrown her way, and Morrigan’s reception was bordering on hostile. What exactly did the villagers think was going on? It could be anything, she thought, her heart sinking. As if they didn’t have enough problems. She sighed heavily, leading the way up the hill toward the castle, hoping Teagan would be able to explain what was going on. 

As they approached the castle gates, the familiar tall figure of Ser Perth came forward to greet them. He studied Alistair carefully. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing. “Is everything all right here?”

“More or less,” Alistair answered cautiously. Perth hadn’t even glanced in Thora’s direction, or at Leliana. And Perth and Leliana had been on-again off-again numerous times over the years. A lack of any greeting at all was distinctly disturbing. “Is everything all right here?”

Perth swallowed. “There have been … rumors,” he said. “Perhaps you had best speak with the Arl.”

“Perhaps we had,” Alistair said. He motioned to Jens to go on ahead. Perth’s eyes followed the big man with the little girl in his arms, then settled on Cybele. He fell in behind the group, looking concerned.

In the great hall, Teagan was waiting in front of the fireplace. An expression of relief crossed his face as they all came in, but it changed quickly to confusion and then worry as he beheld their bedraggled state and Anawyn’s limp body.

“Alistair, Thora,” he said. “Is everything all right? You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve heard.”

“I want to know everything,” Alistair said firmly, “but first, we need to impose upon your hospitality.”

“Of course,” Teagan said with a courtly bow. “Whatever you need, my people will see to it. Would it be possible for the two of you to meet me in my office at your convenience?” Alistair and Thora nodded, exchanging a distressed glance.

“Oghren, Xandros, the two of you please go with Morrigan and Cybele. Anders and Sigrun, with Jens and Anawyn. Be careful. I don’t like the looks we’ve been getting,” Thora said quietly. They all nodded, following Teagan’s servants into the castle.

Thora and Alistair hung back. “What do you think’s going on?” he said quietly. 

She shrugged. “Obviously some kind of rumor has gone around that Morrigan and I have been holding you hostage for our own nefarious purposes.” 

Alistair sighed. “The questions are, what purposes are we suspected of, and who is behind the rumors?”

Thora gave Alistair a disgusted glance. “Is the last one even a question? I should think it would be obvious. Especially given that Morrigan and I seem to be on the receiving end of all the hostility.”

Looking pained, Alistair protested, “But she seemed like such a nice girl!”

“Maybe to you,” Thora snapped. Ignoring the rumbling of her stomach and her deep desire for a hot bath, she said, “Let’s go see what Teagan has to say.”

“After you,” Alistair said unhappily.

Teagan looked up from his desk as they entered. “Everyone settled all right?”

“I think so,” Thora said.

“Do you mind if I ask what is happening? The rumors are … disturbing.”

“Why don’t you tell us the rumors first, and then we’ll fill you in.” Thora perched on the edge of a chair, feeling tiny and childlike, as always, in the midst of all the massive furniture. Alistair crossed his arms, refusing to even look comfortable.

“At first, it was only talked about that you had been seen traveling together, with whispers that your daughter was missing. But then, after you disappeared from Orzammar, the rumors grew uglier. Blood magic, something to do with the witch you traveled with during the Blight, and the Grey Wardens trying to control the King with maleficars. Some even said he’d been taken to the Deep Roads to be eaten alive by darkspawn in some kind of dark Grey Warden ritual.”

Thora groaned. “Well, it couldn’t be any worse, could it? Suspicion thrown not just on me and Morrigan, but the Grey Wardens as well. If Loghain were still alive, I’d suspect him of having a hand in it.”

“He wasn’t the only Fereldan to distrust the Grey Wardens,” Teagan said. “And then your Captain of the Guard came down out of the mountains with tales of the two of you rekindling your romance.” He flushed, refusing to meet their eyes, and Alistair glared at Thora. All this honorable refusal to be together, and what did it get them? All the innuendo with none of the togetherness.

Thora could read the thoughts—Alistair’s face always had been an open book—and she blushed, thinking of the kisses they’d exchanged. They were hardly as innocent as Alistair believed. “Damn that Dirnley,” she said aloud, impatiently. “Teagan, is all this widely believed?”

“It is not disbelieved,” he said carefully. “People remember that you saved them from the Blight. People from the north, near Amaranthine, are devout in their loyalty to the Grey Wardens who have been so good to them. And Alistair is well loved. His people are concerned for him, not angry with him. But you … they don’t know what to think.”

“What in the name of the Maker has Eamon been doing?” Alistair broke in. “Can’t he put a stop to all this?”

“Eamon’s been running your nation, Your Majesty,” Teagan flared. “Which you seem to think of as optional.”

Alistair’s fists clenched. “How dare you!” he began.

Thora put a hand on Alistair’s arm. “He doesn’t know what’s been going on. And Eamon has probably had his hands full. Give them the benefit of the doubt.”

Looking down at her, Alistair took a careful breath. “I’m sorry, Teagan. I didn’t mean to imply that Eamon wasn’t doing his best. It’s just … That woman is a menace,” he said.

“The Queen?”

“Who else?” Alistair sighed. “She’s never forgiven me for feeling a responsibility toward my daughter, and insists on seeing infidelity and betrayal where there is none.”

Teagan snorted. “Betrayal lies in the mind as much as in the body. Anyone who has ever been in the same room with the two of you is aware that there is something between you that no other person can be part of. You have tried to stay apart, it’s true, but what is there is there. The Queen can see that as easily as the rest of us.”

Alistair and Thora were silent for a moment. 

“Now,” Teagan said, “would the two of you like to tell me what’s going on? What happened to Anawyn, and who is the other little girl?”

Thora and Alistair exchanged a glance, wondering how much it would be prudent to say. Finally, Thora said, “Anawyn is … stuck in the Fade. She needs help from the mages at the Tower. The other girl is Cybele, Morrigan’s daughter. They were both kidnapped by Flemeth.”

“The Flemeth. The Witch of the Wilds.” Teagan stared at them, wide-eyed. “From the legends.”

“Exactly.”

“That story is the best you can come up with,” Teagan said skeptically. 

“It’s the truth,” Thora said. “We chased Flemeth across Ferelden. We finally caught up with her in Haven, and now she’s dead and we have our daughter—and Morrigan’s—back.”

Teagan looked from one to the other. At last, he let his breath out. “Is there a body, anything to prove this story?”

“No. The ashes were scattered. Powerful maleficar like that,” Alistair said, “we weren’t taking any chances.”

“Hmm,” Teagan said thoughtfully. “There are possibilities. Instead of being the thrall of a maleficar, the brave King Alistair tracks down the oldest and most powerful witch in Thedas and destroys her for good, with the assistance of the Grey Wardens. Let me work on that for a little while, I think we can do something about those rumors.”

“Thank you, Teagan,” Thora said.

“Thora, you saved my life. Many times. And Alistair, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. I care for you both, and I don’t want to see vile gossip cause you—or your daughter—any trouble. If I can help, I will. Now, what can we do to help Anawyn?”

“We need to take her to the Circle Tower,” Alistair said.

“Does you need to go to the Tower personally, Alistair?” Teagan asked slowly.

“Yes.” Alistair’s tone brooked no argument.

“Pity,” Teagan said. “If you separated from Thora and the apostate, it would be better. Even if you stayed here, just to be seen away from them would help refute the rumors.”

“Even if he stayed here?” Thora asked, her eyes twinkling at a sudden thought. “I have an idea.”  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“It would only be for a few days,” Thora said, looking at the two men in front of her. 

Alistair looked over Anders’s mage robes and shuddered. “You really want me to wear those?”

“Hey!” Anders said. “They’re quite freeing. You’ll want to give up your armor.” He grinned. “Exactly how much would it harm your reputation if I seduced a few of the comelier wenches in the castle?”

“It might help,” Teagan said dryly from where he leaned against the doorframe. He looked over the two men. “It has possibilities,” he said to Thora. “But the hair …”

“Alistair can wear Anders’s cowl,” Thora said thoughtfully, “but Anders …”

“NO!” Anders said in horror. “Absolutely not.”

Alistair grinned, running a hand through his short hair. “It’s quite freeing. You’ll want to give up your ponytail.”

“Not the same thing at all,” Anders grumbled. 

“But you’ll do it?” Thora asked anxiously.

“Of course,” Anders said. “It’s not like I was looking forward to going to the Circle. But you owe me for the hair,” he pouted.

“Teagan, do you think it’s good enough?” Thora asked. “Alistair grew up here, after all.”

“He did, but he left when he was ten. Even those who knew him during the Blight … he looked a lot different then. And was much less clean,” he grinned. “What about the Tower? Will anyone notice the difference?”

Anders snorted. “I haven’t set foot in the Tower since I became a Warden.” He winked at Alistair. “Just don’t let anyone under the robes.” At Alistair’s raised eyebrows, Anders said, “Oh, yeah, it’s that memorable.”

Thora groaned. “I don’t know who’s worse, you or Oghren.” More seriously, she said, “I’ll leave Jens and Sigrun here with you. Oghren, too, I think. He’ll be sad to miss Wynne, but as my Second he should stay to be clear that the King and the Grey Wardens are still in harmony.” Thora turned to look at Teagan. “Thank you, ser, for your assistance. And your friendship.” She bowed to him. 

Returning the bow, Teagan said, “I owe you my life. This is the least that I can do.” He looked over at Alistair and Anders again. “I think it would be best if you gave Anders your wedding ring, Alistair. It’s the kind of detail that might well be noticed, where the difference in facial features might not.”

Alistair nodded. “A good thought.” He looked down at Thora, and his eyes darkened. Holding her gaze, he slowly slid the ring off his finger, tossing it carelessly to Anders. 

Thora flushed and looked away. Watching them, Teagan shook his head. He hoped they knew what they were doing.

“Anders, Sigrun will come in to cut your hair in a few minutes. You two might as well switch now, make sure that we can pull this off. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,” Thora said, turning to Teagan. She didn’t meet Alistair’s eyes as she left the room.

Teagan looked at the two men. “Good luck to both of you. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Teagan, wait,” Alistair called. He caught up to the Arl in the hallway. Quietly, he said, “In case … If I don’t return from the Tower, Eamon is to act as Regent until Duncan is of age. And if something happens to Eamon, I would like you to act as Regent in his stead.”

“Alistair, are you sure you should risk yourself?”

“If it requires my life to save my daughter, then that is what it requires. I will not let her die, not even for Ferelden.”

“Very well, my liege,” Teagan said, bowing. “Alistair?”

The King turned back to look at Teagan.

“For what it’s worth, I am proud of you. And I believe Maric would have been, as well.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Maybe I’ll get the chance to ask him myself.” He nodded his head to Teagan, and headed back down the hall to Anders’s room.


	56. Be Our Guest

Setting off in the morning was easier than Thora had anticipated. Alistair and Anders carried off the switch fairly well, although Anders kept shifting his shoulders inside the stiff armor and Alistair fidgeted with the tight-fitting top of the mage robes. 

Thora took a moment to talk to Oghren before they set off. “I’m sorry to leave you here, my friend,” she said, “but you see why it’s necessary.”

“Aye.” He looked wistful for a moment. “When you see the old doxy, ya give her an Oghren special, y’hear?”

“I am not kissing her,” Thora said sternly. “Certainly not like that.” She’d witnessed the Oghren special a few times, and it generally got him slapped silly. “You will remember who you’re talking to, won’t you?” 

“Sure. I’ll just call ‘em all ‘nug-humper’. Should do the trick.” He looked at her seriously. “You can trust ol’ Oghren, ya know that. You just get the little cave tick back.”

Overcome by his rare sincerity, Thora could only nod. She turned toward the group heading for the Tower. Morrigan and Xandros, with Cybele walking between them, were already on the road. Leliana waited with Alistair in Anders’s robes. He cradled Anawyn close to him. 

They walked in silence for some time. Alistair kept pausing to try and adjust the robes, sighing in annoyance.

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Thora hissed at him.

“There’s nothing, you know, under them,” he whined. “They chafe.”

After a moment, Leliana giggled, followed by Thora. Alistair gave up and laughed along with them. For a moment, it was like being back in the midst of the Blight, except for the unconscious little girl in Alistair’s arms. He held her more closely, wishing she were awake to join in the mirth.

At last they arrived at the shores of Lake Calenhad, where Kester and his boat waited patiently. “Ah, it’s you, is it?” he said to Thora. He’d ferried her across the lake several times since Wynne had taken up residence in the Tower again. His gaze took in the rest of her companions, resting finally on Anawyn’s bright head. “Everything all right?”

Thora swallowed. “It will be after you get us across the lake,” she said.

Kester looked over the big man in the mage robes. “Haven’t seen you here before,” he said. “But you look familiar.”

“After all those escape attempts from your boat? I’d hope so!” Alistair said in a passable imitation of Anders’s more flamboyant style. 

“Andrew, was it?” Kester said, squinting to get a better look.

“Anders, my dear fellow.” Alistair gave Anders’s cheeky grin a shot. 

Kester shook his head. “Don’ know which is going fastest,” he said, “my eyes or my memory.” He turned back to Thora. “Come along, then, let’s get you across.”

They all climbed aboard the boat. Anxiety rose higher in all of them as the boat neared the Tower. How would they be able to defeat Urthemiel and restore Anawyn to herself without harming Cybele? An easy answer eluded them, except for Alistair, who was all too sure what would be required. After all, his blood was the only link between the two girls—if this was blood magic, surely his would be required. His eyes rested on Thora’s back. He wouldn’t have minded the idea of giving up his life for his daughter’s so much if he could only have more time with the woman he loved first. Closing his eyes, he remembered Thora laughing in his arms, cozy in their tent during the Blight; Thora with her red hair spilling over her shoulders and down nearly to the ground; Thora as she’d looked when he first saw her, face filled with such strength and serenity. Even if he never had another minute with her, those memories were his to hold on to, Alistair thought, burying his face in his daughter’s red hair, so like her mother’s.

The boat drew up at the docks. Kester gave them another concerned look as he helped Thora out of the boat, last of the group. “Anything you need, Commander?” he asked quietly.

“Thank you, Kester,” she said. “Just … if you hear any rumors, don’t believe them.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

The doors of the Tower opened as they approached, and the Templars at the door stepped aside to allow them to pass. Whatever they may have thought was hidden beneath the faceless helmets.

The young Enchanter at the door was no one Thora recognized, nor was the Templar commander who stepped forward to greet them. He took in the odd party expressionlessly. “Are you expected?” he asked brusquely.

“No,” Thora said. “But if you speak to Irving, I’m sure he—“

“Senior Enchanter Irving is no longer the First Enchanter,” the young mage said, her voice crisp. “I’ll need to ask you all to state your names and business.”

“Commander!” A high-pitched delighted voice sounded from behind the young mage, and a small enthusiastic figure bounded into view. 

“Dagna!” Thora said, accepting with what dignity she could the exuberant hug the younger dwarf gave her. Thora had made it possible for Dagna to study with the Circle back during the Blight, and Dagna had risen to the position of Librarian, her joy in studying unparalleled in the history of the Circle.

Dagna turned to the young mage at the door. “Eliana, this is the Commander of the Grey! She’s Enchanter Wynne’s friend.” To the stern Templar, she added, “Commander Thora passes whenever she arrives, expected or not.” It was strange to hear Dagna speak with such authority. She still reminded Thora of a very enthusiastic puppy. Taking Thora by the hand, Dagna led her into the main part of the Circle. “Come along!” she said over her shoulder to the rest of the group. Quietly, for Thora’s ears alone, Dagna said, “That’s a powerful spell holding your daughter. Even I can sense it, and my skills are learned rather than instinctual. We must get her to Irving and First Enchanter Petra as quickly as we can before people start asking questions. The two apostates, as well, will draw attention.” She glanced quickly at Alistair in Anders’s robes. “We’ll just hope anyone who sees him figures Anders has lost some of his magic outside the Tower. But the sooner we help you, the better.”

Thora’s jaw dropped. “How do you know all that?”

Dagna shrugged. “You pick things up,” she said. “Also, we’re not entirely isolated. I’m aware of the rumors.”

Putting her hand on the other dwarf’s arm, Thora asked, “How is Wynne?”

“Fading,” Dagna said soberly. “There’s not much time left.” She looked over at Thora. “There is something we want to speak with you about … but later.”

And with that cryptic comment, she fell silent, leaving Thora anxious and confused, but relieved to be among friends.


	57. Reviewing the Situation

They reached the upper floors, and Dagna led them to the First Enchanter’s office. Petra, streaks of grey showing in her red hair, stood up, welcoming them warmly. She scrutinized Alistair closely under his cowl. “Anders, you look a bit different than the last time I saw you,” she said.

“Getting better with age,” Alistair grinned. “Care for a sample?” His eyes twinkled, and he seemed to be enjoying the opportunity for a little more fun and less responsibility that came with being Anders.

Petra smirked at him. “It’s a good likeness, but don’t think you can fool me.” She turned to Thora, the smile fading from her face. “Wynne doesn’t move around much these days. Shall we join her in her room instead?” 

Thora nodded. She exchanged fortifying glances with Alistair and Leliana. Wynne had meant so much to all of them—fighting at their sides during the Blight, healing them, protecting Thora’s unborn child when she killed the Archdemon, delivering Anawyn—it was hard to contemplate that her indomitable spirit was faded so badly. It was worse still to think of Wynne’s last days being spent lying in bed with coverlets up to her chin, a fate Wynne had often said she hoped to avoid. How she must chafe at that, Thora thought.

Even warned, none of them were prepared for the frailty of the woman beneath the covers. Her skin was paper thin, her eyes were sunken deep into her head, her hands trembled on the coverlet. Her eyes were the same, though—warm and snapping with Wynne’s unquenchable inner fire.

Irving sat next to her, and he, too, had aged tremendously since Thora had last seen him. His fan-like beard was snow white, and he stood with the assistance of a cane. His sharp eyes studied the group that came in, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he helped Wynne as she struggled to sit up, propping soft pillows behind her head.

“My dears,” Wynne said warmly. Thora and Leliana bent to kiss her on the cheek, and then she looked past them at Alistair. “Scalawag, what are you up to, pretending to be Anders? And what have you done with my lovely baby there?” Her words were light, but she and Irving both looked at Anawyn’s limp figure with deep concern. 

“It’s a necessary deception,” Alistair said. Shifting Anawyn to one shoulder, he bent, kissing Wynne’s hand. “You’re looking well.”

“Enough with the flattery, my boy,” Wynne said, but her mouth curved in a smile. Alistair always was her favorite. She looked past him, her eyes resting on Morrigan and then on Cybele with more interest. The little girl clung to her mother’s hand. Wynne looked back at Morrigan. “There’s a face I never thought I’d see again.”

“Nor I,” Morrigan said coolly. “’Twould not be happening if I did not require your assistance.”

Wynne nodded slowly. “We have heard tales. Would I be wrong if I suspected Flemeth had something to do with all this?”

“It’s a rather long story,” Thora said. “You might want to get comfortable.” Taking a deep breath, she launched into the tale of the last few months. Wynne studied Cybele closely as Thora spoke. “Finally, we caught up with Flemeth in Haven,” said Thora.

“Of course,” Wynne said.

“I said we should burn the cursed place down before we left,” Alistair put in. He looked down at his daughter. “Then … this happened, and there was no more time.”

“The Old God?” Wynne asked, and Morrigan nodded slowly.

“He has been awakened from slumber, and he desires to be free.”

“But he is inside the wrong child.” Wynne and Morrigan looked at each other coldly. There never had been any love lost between the two of them, and it was very difficult for Morrigan to be here asking for the older mage’s help. Irving and Petra were watching this exchange with guarded expressions, impossible to read. Dagna stared from Alistair to Morrigan to Cybele to Anawyn. Suddenly she said, “Ohhhh!” in a tone of shocked but intrigued surprise. At a glance from Irving she subsided, but she continued watching the others with undisguised fascination.

At last, Morrigan said, “The Commander’s daughter—“

“Anawyn,” Wynne said.

“Anawyn,” Morrigan acknowledged. “She is … a brave child. Somehow she was able to absorb Urthemiel’s spirit, and he rests inside her now.”

“Rests?” Wynne asked. “Why is he resting?”

“I cast a spell, to hold the two in stasis. It has worked far better than I expected—I do not entirely understand why,” Morrigan said. “But it will not be long before Urthemiel overcomes the spell. He desires to be freed, and it will require someone’s life blood to do it. And he will not cease to try. We can delay the process, but not stop it.”

“Take mine,” Alistair said, startling all of them. His arms tightened around the little girl in his arms. “If there’s a link in the blood between them, I’m that link. Let it be my blood that Urthemiel takes.” He grinned lopsidedly. “The way I see it, I’m overdue for a little Archdemon possession anyway.” His eyes rested on Cybele. “It may be that my time has run out.”

Thora drew in her breath sharply, but she bit her tongue against the “no!” that cried out to be said. Obviously, it was his decision to make. She wouldn’t have hesitated to offer her own life in exchange for Anawyn’s either … but a world with no Alistair in it? She set her jaw against the despair that filled her.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In the Fade, the sun shone unceasingly, the wind rippling through the grasses as Anawyn and Urthemiel sat quietly together.

With an effort, Anawyn roused herself from the stupor she’d fallen into. She looked at Urthemiel. “What are we going to do?”

He sighed heavily, getting up from the stone he’d been sitting on. “I must be free,” he said, almost apologetically. “My soul cries out for it.”

“Is this … the only way?” Her voice was small. “Couldn’t you use only some of my blood?”

“No,” he said kindly. “I must have all of it. I do not believe it will hurt, if that helps at all.”

Anawyn thought about that. “No,” she said at last. “It doesn’t really help.”

“Ah.” He studied her, looking down from his great height at her upturned face. “I confess, I do not entirely understand why helping me to be free is not fulfilling enough to compensate for the loss of your life. I understand that the afterlife is—” He broke off sharply. “Perhaps I should not reveal what happens after one crosses over. Sometimes these things are best as a surprise. An enjoyable one,” he assured her.

“But I don’t want to cross over yet!” Anawyn cried out. “I want to go home. I want my mother.”

“I understand. I would have liked to have met your mother. In my untainted form, that is. I owe her a great debt.” Thoughtfully, he said, “There was great power in being a dragon, and I was a beautiful dragon. But the taint was ugly—it was everything I hate. I could not believe that someone so small as your mother could defeat one as powerful as I was, or destroy such tremendous ugliness. But on she came with her dagger and her sword. The light flashed, and my soul met hers for a moment, her pure, brave soul. Then I was pulled away from her. I saw you,” he said, looking at Anawyn, “so small, and my soul was drawn to you, but there was a magical shield around you. Your mother had protected you. Your friend, on the other hand, was created for me.” He shrugged. “And now here we are. Anawyn, my little friend, it is time.” 

All the long weeks of fear and loneliness were too much for Anawyn, and she buried her head in her folded arms as sobs wracked her body. Urthemiel stood watching, his beautiful face filled with concern and confusion. And then he stepped toward her.


	58. Sacrifice

The room was silent after Alistair made his declaration. It seemed the most likely solution, even if none of them wanted it to be, but no one wanted to be the first to agree with it.

Wynne looked over Alistair’s shoulder at Morrigan, who was looking uncharacteristically troubled. “Something you would like to add?” the old mage asked.

Morrigan said, “That is not the way that it should work. Cybele’s blood is …” She looked around at the mages in the room, finishing lamely, “special. Urthemiel’s soul is bound to it.”

Petra’s lips tightened. Dagna’s mouth was a round “o” in her face. Irving shook his head, looking distressed. Only Wynne, who had known about the ritual since the night it had happened, showed no sign of disquiet. “Then how did he move into Anawyn?”

“I do not know,” Morrigan said, making the admission with difficulty. It went against her grain to admit in front of these Tower-bound mages that there was something she didn’t know. She looked down at her daughter. Cybele’s eyes were wide and scared in her little face. Morrigan studied the girl for a few moments, then one dark eyebrow quirked and she nodded slowly. “Unless … Cybele, at any time did Anawyn touch you when you were injured? Bleeding?”

“No, Mother,” Cybele said. “But …” Her face creased in concern. “We didn’t know there was anything wrong in it,” she said apologetically.

“Anything wrong in what?”

“We became blood sisters,” Cybele said shyly, holding out her palm so Morrigan could see the scar there. 

“Blood sisters,” Alistair repeated, shaking his head at the irony. 

“That is the link, then,” Morrigan said. “It has to be. When Anawyn took Cybele’s blood into herself, it allowed Urthemiel to bond with her.”

“So my blood wouldn’t work, then?” Alistair asked.

“No.”

Thora watched Alistair’s tortured face with mingled relief and panic. She wouldn’t lose him, then—but how could they save Anawyn?

“There is only one thing to do, then.” Thora was surprised by the sudden strength in Wynne’s voice as the old woman sat up and began to push off the covers.

Irving bent over Wynne. “What are you doing, my dear? This is blood magic, you know that.”

“It is blood magic, yes, Irving, but if someone doesn’t do something, Anawyn will die. She is too special to be lost, if there is someone else who can take her place.”

“Wynne, what are you saying?” Thora looked at her old friend in confusion.

“I will take some of Cybele’s blood into my body, and Urthemiel can have these old bones as his sacrifice.” She smiled kindly down at Thora’s shocked white face. “Better me than anyone else, you know that,” Wynne said. She reached out and closed one thin hand over Irving’s. Tears were seeping out of the old man’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks. “You know this slow wasting away in bed has always been my greatest fear. How much better to pass into the night while doing something, saving that child and freeing the soul of an Old God.” Her eyes met Morrigan’s. “After all, left unchecked, what is to stop the darkspawn from seeking the Old God and tainting it again? We could have a whole new Blight. Better this way,” she said, smiling at them all.

Anawyn moaned suddenly, squirming in Alistair’s arms. “Be quick,” Morrigan said sharply. “There may not be much more time.”

“Very well,” Wynne said. “Let us say what must be said.” Dagna and Petra gently embraced the old woman. “Petra, do not go far.” The red-headed First Enchanter nodded, then she and Dagna left the room. “Morrigan,” Wynne said shortly. 

Morrigan nodded. “We will be outside the door, if needed. And … thank you.”

“It is not for you,” Wynne said. 

“And yet I still feel gratitude,” Morrigan said, almost musingly. She took Cybele by the hand and left the room, Xandros following them.

Wynne turned to Irving. “My dear,” she said simply. “I have loved you as much as I could anyone.” 

“I know that.” The old man smiled at her. “And I only resented it occasionally.” He squeezed her hand. “I will be outside if you need me.”

Leliana was next, hugging Wynne. “It is time, Leliana,” the mage said. “Stop hunting for the ashes of a long-dead woman and start living your life again. For me, and for yourself. You have too much to give to allow guilt and fear to conquer you.”

“I will try,” the bard said. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Wynne smiled, watching with fondness as Leliana left the room. Finally, her eyes turned to Alistair and Thora. “My brave dears. How many trials must you face?” she said with sympathy.

“It won’t be the same without you to save us from them,” Alistair said.

“Or lecture us,” Thora put in. “Oh, I almost forgot—Oghren sends his regards.”

“Really. That’s what he said, is it?” Wynne asked teasingly.

“Well, no. He said to give you an Oghren special. I give you his regards.” They all chuckled.

Wynne looked at Thora, pride warm in her eyes. “It has been a privilege to share in your accomplishments,” she said. “Now, when this is done, speak to Dagna. She has discovered—something extraordinary. But I will leave it for her to reveal.” Her eyes twinkled at Thora.

“Intriguing.”

“I do like leaving as a woman of mystery.”

“I don’t like you leaving at all,” Thora said, smiling at her old friend and attempting to ignore the tear trembling on the edge of her eyelashes.

“It would have happened anyway. This is a better way than I was prepared for.” Wynne studied Thora’s face. “Do not forget to be happy.”

“What ever happened to the Wynne who preached duty all the time?” 

“You did. You two lovely children, who taught me that there can—and should—be both.”

Thora reached out and squeezed Wynne’s hand, the tear sliding down her cheek. “Wynne, everything you’ve done … I can never say enough how much—“

“Enough,” Wynne said. “Take care of that little girl. That’s all the thanks I need.”

Overcome, Thora nodded. 

Wynne turned to look at Alistair, her eyes warm with her great affection for him. “My dear boy,” she said. “You mind if an old woman gives you one last piece of advice?”

Alistair grinned at her. “Sure. You find me the old woman, I’ll be happy to hear the advice.”

Chuckling softly, Wynne reached for his hand, drawing him close to her. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, his eyes bright and wet with unshed tears, and Wynne murmured, “There is a time for duty to others, and there is a time for duty to yourself.”

Alistair looked at her. “How do I know which time is which?”

“That, my boy, you will have to discover.”

“Why is advice always just a code word for ‘cryptic’?” Alistair complained.

Wynne smiled. “Because we old people have learned that you young ones only understand what you have figured out on your own.” 

“No!” cried out Anawyn suddenly. She jumped in Alistair’s arms, and then put her hands to her throat, beginning to struggle against something the rest of them couldn’t see.

“We have to hurry,” Thora said. Wynne nodded to her, and Thora went to the door, calling for Morrigan, Cybele, and Irving.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anawyn felt Urthemiel’s strong, slender hands close around her neck, and she jumped up, screaming, “No!” The sudden movement knocked his hands away, and Anawyn ran, but a wall appeared in front of her. She turned, staring up at Urthemiel with panicked eyes. “Urthemiel, please, wait!”

He paused, looking uncomfortable. Then he sighed. “Wait for what, my child? There is no other choice.”

“What if we can think of something else?” Tears were flowing down Anawyn’s cheeks now. “Please, don’t.”

“I must,” Urthemiel whispered. He reached for her again. Anawyn closed her eyes in despair, knowing she wasn’t strong enough to fight him, not here in the Fade.

“Let her go!” The commanding voice rang out through the Fade, startling them both.

Urthemiel turned around. Wynne advanced on him, her white hair shining in the sunlight. She smiled at Anawyn. “Do not worry, my girl,” she said. “You will not have to do this.” Then Wynne went down on one knee before Urthemiel. “Mighty Urthemiel, powerful and compassionate God of Beauty, this humble servant petitions you to accept her sacrifice and use this vessel to free yourself.”

Anawyn scrubbed at her eyes, not sure if she was imagining this or not. Urthemiel looked down at Wynne’s bent head, a bemused expression playing across his face. “I know you, Wynne of the Tower. I have seen you here. You have most powerful friends in the Fade, including the spirit that animates you.”

“The spirit grows weak, my lord,” Wynne said. “And I grow weary of lying in bed waiting to drift away into oblivion. Allow me to be your gateway to freedom, let Anawyn go to live the life she is destined for.”

Urthemiel looked down at the mage, considering. “Your proposal is acceptable. Yes,” he said with more conviction. He turned to Anawyn. “My young friend, you have devoted allies. And, I confess I am relieved. You are a true friend, and you have been most brave. I would gladly have conferred on you the honor of freeing me, but you have convinced me that there is also honor in returning to the mortal world.” He said it dubiously, however, clearly not completely sure. “Tell your mother that I am grateful to her, and that I am sorry we could not have met under better circumstances.”

Anawyn nodded. “Good luck, Urthemiel,” she said. He smiled at her, his blindingly beautiful smile, then he turned back to Wynne. For a moment the mage and the God looked into each other’s eyes, and then from somewhere he had drawn a small sharp knife. Anawyn turned away, so she never saw exactly what he did with it, but within a few moments there was a great flash of light, and then she felt the warmth of her father’s arms around her as he cradled her close to him, whispering, “Little love, little love,” over and over again.

“Father!” she said in relief, only then realizing that he wore Anders’s robes. “What?”

“Don’t worry,” her mother said, and Anawyn felt her mother’s arms around her as well. “We’ll explain everything later. Oh, my girl,” Thora said. There were tears in her eyes, and in Father’s, and Anawyn saw an old man in mage robes bending over the lifeless body of Wynne, on the bed.

“Urthemiel said to say thank you,” she said to her mother. “For freeing him from the darkspawn. And … I think Wynne was happy.”

Thora and Alistair broke down then, embracing their daughter and crying in grief and gratitude for the woman who had saved her life for the last time.


	59. Losing My Religion

After a few moments of the group hug, Anawyn pulled free of her parents, looking around the room for Cybele. Both little girls rushed at each other, clinging close and laughing. “Anawyn, you’re safe! You saved me.”

“You’re my sister,” Anawyn said. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”

“We really are, too! We’re real sisters!” Cybele’s bright, happy face smiled into Anawyn’s. “Just ask him.” She nodded toward Alistair.

Anawyn looked over her shoulder at her father, who nodded. Her heart warmed at the confirmation, and at the sight of her parents sitting together so naturally, her father’s arm around her mother’s shoulders. All her questions could wait until later, she thought, hugging her sister again. 

Alistair watched his daughters embrace, his heart swelling at the sight of their affection for each other. All that was needed to make the picture complete was his little Duncan, he thought. How he wished the boy was here to meet his sisters. Alistair decided that, come what may, he would make that happen—see all three of his children together. He felt Thora leaning against him, and it came to him that now, with Anawyn finally safe, he had to take Wynne’s advice and decide where his duty truly led. Would he allow Dorothea and her rumors to separate him from his family again, or would he take a stand for those he loved, even though it could well cost him his kingdom? His arm tightened around Thora, his heart and mind warring with each other.

The door opened then, and First Enchanter Petra came in. Tears gathered in her eyes as she and Dagna went to Wynne’s body. 

Alistair stood up, putting his hands gently on the little girls’ shoulders. “Come on,” he said, “let’s leave them to care for her. We’ll just be in the way in here.” Morrigan and Xandros followed them out. 

“Can we do anything?” Thora asked.

Petra sniffled. “No, thank you,” she said. “Would you … speak a few words at the pyre?”

“Of course. It’s my honor.”

Folding Wynne’s hands carefully across her breast, Petra said fondly, “I’m so glad her last wish came true. She hated the idea of dying in bed.” A pair of strong young mages came into the room, and with Petra and Irving’s help, removed Wynne’s body to prepare it for her pyre.

When she and Dagna were left alone in the room, Thora remembered Wynne’s cryptic comments. “Dagna, Wynne told me to talk to you about—“

“Oh, yes!” Dagna exclaimed, her face lighting up. “It’s the most exciting thing,” she said. “I figured out a way to go to the Fade.”

“Really?” Thora’s eyes widened. The ability to enter the Fade through dreams and meet up there with friends and loved ones was something she’d wanted since she’d first come to the surface. She’d never expected to have the opportunity … but here it was. “What’s it like?” she asked Dagna.

“It’s like flying,” Dagna said, practically hopping with enthusiasm. “You see, it’s like this. The arcane energies flow to the left and the life force flows to the right and then if you cross the streams you can open up a …” She stopped, looking at Thora’s mystified face. “You’re not following any of this, are you?”

Thora shook her head. “Remember, I haven’t spent my whole life studying magic, unlike some people.”

“Of course not,” Dagna said with a giggle. “Sometimes I forget. Okay, so: I’ve developed this potion. You drink it before you go to bed, and then when you fall asleep there’ll be this glowing door that you can go through. You have to decide to go through, and decide to stay there, but it’s easy once you get the hang of it. You can meet up with all sorts of people. No dwarves, of course,” she said, her mouth turning down for a moment, “but everyone else. It’s so exciting! And in theory,” her voice dropped to a near whisper, “if you take enough of it, over time it will build up in your system and you can go to the Fade after you die. Just like … well, everyone else.”

Thora’s eyebrows flew up and she stared incredulously at Dagna.

The smile faded from Dagna’s face. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said quietly. “The whole Stone thing. But what has the Stone done for me? I was trapped in the smith caste, treated as a commodity to be given where my father willed it, not allowed to study. Can you imagine me not studying?” She shook her head. “I chose to make my life here. I’ve never looked back … and if I did, the Stone wouldn’t take me, because now I’m a surfacer. When I left to come here, that was the end of me and Orzammar. I had the impression the same was true of you. More so, since you were actually exiled and considered dead until you ended the Blight.”

“It makes sense … but what makes you so sure you want to go to the Fade when you die? Or what if it’s all just lies the humans and elves tell themselves so dying won’t seem so scary?” 

Dagna smiled. “It seems strange, someone so focused on facts taking a chance on faith, doesn’t it? But what’s the alternative? Assuming that I’ll be able to go somewhere and be with all those I … love,” she blushed, clearly thinking of someone in particular, “sounds way better to me than imagining my life force flowing into some other dwarf who probably doesn’t want it, or believing there will be just … nothing.” She looked Thora in the eyes. “I would have thought you’d want that chance, too, rather than being separated from your family for sure.”

“No, you’re right,” Thora said softly, feeling very moved. Dagna was rarely this serious, and it was always a revelation to see the depth and emotion under the bounce and bubbles of her usual persona. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Fade, and … you’re right, I’d rather take the chance of being with my family in the Fade than—anything else.” She thought of the twenty years she probably had left before the taint took her. If she thought she’d be with Alistair afterward, and later Anawyn, those years wouldn’t seem so short anymore. 

Dagna’s whole face brightened. She danced up and down on her toes. “You want some, then? I have potions all made up for you. Wynne said you would want them.”

“She knew me very well.”

Later in the day, they held Wynne’s memorial, saying their final good-byes, standing by the pyre as the sparks flew upward into the sky. Afterward, there was feasting in her honor, the mages telling stories about Wynne’s life and accomplishments. Thora and Alistair and their party ate separately, in the private area reserved for special visitors. The Tower was no stranger to people who wanted to keep their presence secret. During the meal, they were able to fill Anawyn in on why Alistair was wearing Anders’s robes, although they underplayed the rumors a bit. 

At the end of the meal, a fruit basket appeared, as well as a plate of sweets. The little girls immediately pounced on the sweets, squabbling good-naturedly over the distribution, especially of the delicate Orlesian chocolates. Alistair reached out, scooping up a handful, and both girls tackled him, climbing all over him to get to the chocolates in his hand. Even Morrigan smiled, watching as Alistair wrestled with his daughters.

“Anawyn!” Thora called, beckoning to the little girl. When Anawyn came to her, Thora whispered in her daughter’s ear. Anawyn’s eyes twinkled wickedly, and she ran back to her father, tickling him mercilessly under the chin. While Alistair squirmed, laughing uncontrollably, Cybele took the chocolates back, and the girls retired to the corner with their booty.

“I’ll get you for that,” Alistair said, getting up off the floor and putting his hair back in order.

“Take your best shot,” Thora said, grinning. 

That grin sent a shower of electric sparks through Alistair’s body, the force of his response to her taking his breath away. He shivered at the surge, feeling trapped in indecision. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, but could he make it work? And if so, how? And what would he do about Dorothea? How could he make her happy and not give up—again—the love of his life? 

Unaware of Alistair’s tormented thoughts, Thora stood up. “All right, Anawyn, I think a little girl who has had a very long couple of months should get to bed.”

“A real bed?” Anawyn jumped up, excited. “Can I sleep with Cybele?”

The mothers looked at each other, then nodded, and they both left the room to get the girls settled. Alistair felt the pull in his blood that signaled Thora’s movements, the taint an ever-present reminder that time was passing—their time. 

He nodded to himself, his decision made. 

And so it was that after the girls had gone to bed; after Morrigan and Xandros had disappeared to their room in a manner that was meant to be discreet; after Leliana had gone downstairs to entertain the mages with her songs; after Thora was in her room getting ready for bed, Thora felt him coming, the buzz in her blood that signaled his approach already going to her head. He didn’t bother to knock. He closed the door firmly behind him, and she heard the snick of the lock being shot home. 

Quietly, he said, “Thora.”

She trembled in response to his voice. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t expected this … but she hadn’t been prepared for it to be this soon. Could she really give in and let this happen? Where would that leave her tomorrow, when she had to send him back to his Queen? If she let him back in now, how could she ever give him up again?


	60. Need You Now

Thora’s eyes traveled over Alistair. He wore comfortable linen trousers … and nothing else. Her lips parted, her mouth suddenly dry. She thought of the taste of his skin, and she licked her lips. She said, “Something you need, Alistair?”

“You know what I need,” he said, his voice ragged. And then something predatory entered his eyes. He moved purposefully across the room, and Thora retreated until her back was pressed against the wall. Alistair braced his palms against the wall on either side of her. “Or should I spell it out for you?” His head dipped, his mouth close to her ear, as he whispered slowly, deliberately, “What I need is to touch you, to taste you, to smell you all around me.”

Thora closed her eyes, feeling the aching of her breasts, the moisture collecting between her legs. Each word thrust itself inside her as surely and deeply as if they were already coupled, as he went on, his lips close to her skin but not touching.

“I need to be inside you, hearing you call my name, watching your face as your pleasure overcomes you.” His hands gripped the stones of the wall, fighting his desperate desire to touch her. If he touched her, she would melt into his arms and he would win the battle; but he would lose the war, because she would wake up with all her questions topped off with a big dollop of guilt. Alistair stayed where he was.

She took a deep breath, the heat between them nearly unbearable. “We can’t,” she said in a little moan. “You know we can’t.”

“Damn it all, Thora!” he groaned. “Why not?”

“Because … of your wife,” she said, her thoughts moving sluggishly.

“You mean the wife who is at this moment crafting rumors about you that are likely to land you in jail for treason against the Crown, if they’re believed? That wife?”

“It’s not her fault. She didn’t deserve …”

“Deserve!” Alistair shouted. He turned away from her now, and she shivered in relief and disappointment. “What about what I deserve?”

“You’re the King.”

“I am. I’ve been a really good King. The country is prospering, the people are happy. But I’m miserable.” His voice broke. “I sit there in the castle, missing you with every breath.”

Thora watched him, her heart twisting at the unhappiness in his voice.

Alistair took a deep breath, collecting himself. “Our time is running out, Thora. We’ve wasted ten years not being together. And I can’t regret those, because they brought me my son, who I look forward to seeing again soon, and secured the succession of the throne. But there is no reason why we have to be apart any longer. None.” 

Her lips parted to speak, but he stopped her, his eyes flashing dangerously. “And don’t you dare say ‘duty’!”

“I was going to say Anawyn. How will she feel if there’s a scandal?”

“What Anawyn wants is you and me together, and you know that as well as I do.” He took a step back toward her, and Thora’s breath caught in her throat. His voice softened as he looked down at her. “Love, the choice is yours—but you have to make it now. We can work out the details later … much later,” he added huskily. He went down on his knees in front of her, putting his face closer to hers. “But you have to decide right now if you want me or not. We both know it’s everything or nothing for us, and I want … everything.” His eyes traveled over her body the way his hands wanted to. 

Thora’s breasts heaved. It was hard to breathe properly with him so close. She closed her eyes, trapped in indecision.

Alistair’s voice came at her, tender and caressing. “I know,” he said. “Nothing defeats you except what goes on in your own mind, the possibilities you imagine. Can you try to believe that the two of us together are stronger than whatever you’re thinking? There’s nothing we’ve ever tried to do together that we haven’t succeeded at … nothing except being apart.”

Opening her eyes, she raised one trembling hand, running her fingers lightly over his flushed cheekbone. Alistair whimpered softly in relief, leaning into her touch. He caught her hand in his, kissing the palm. “Oh, love,” he breathed, drawing each finger into his mouth, his tongue stroking delicately.

Thora shuddered. Her arm wound around his neck and she pressed herself against him, moaning at the contact.

Getting to his feet, Alistair lifted her, carrying her to the bed. He laid her down gently, stripping her shirt off. “Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful,” he said. Thora held her arms up to him, and he went into them joyfully, his mouth meeting hers. Her hands stroked his back feverishly until her hunger for him overpowered her, and she pushed him over onto his back, stripping off the rest of their clothes before she climbed on top of him. She ground her wetness against his length, both of them gasping at the sensation. Bending, Thora ran her tongue over the side of his neck, nipping. Alistair arched off the bed with a cry as she hit just the right spot, his hands clutching at the covers beneath him. Slowly, Thora worked her way down his body, touching and tasting, each sound he made increasing the ache between her legs. 

At last, Alistair couldn’t stand it any longer. He caught at her hips, shifting her into position. Their eyes locked as Thora poised above him. She stopped, holding herself there, trembling, and Alistair moaned in protest. “I love you,” she whispered, just as he had the first time they ever made love, and lowered herself slowly down until they were fully joined. Alistair’s hands reached up, stroking her face gently before they found her breasts, cupping and squeezing the soft flesh as Thora began her rhythmic rise and fall. They had been without each other too long to take it slowly, and it was only a short time before Thora felt that tightening, the pressure building inside her. Alistair’s eyes never left her face as it flushed red, her mouth falling open and her eyes closing, and when she cried out his name it sent him over the edge after her.

He caught her as she slid bonelessly off of him, cradling her, then caught his breath in surprise as he felt her tongue slowly move up the column of his throat. “You’re crazy if you think once is going to be enough,” she purred into his ear. “Kiss me.” And he was more than glad to obey.


	61. This Night

Utterly sated, Alistair collapsed against the mattress, sighing in contentment. Thora snuggled up against him. They lay there together for a while, letting their breathing get back to normal and simply enjoying being with each other. Alistair yawned widely.

Thora nuzzled her cheek against his chest. “All worn out, old man?” she teased.

“Hey! I could do it again,” he protested.

“Really,” she said. Her hand slid slowly down over his abdomen. He grabbed the hand before it could reach its destination.

“All right, so maybe not right this second,” he said, chuckling. “Anyway, you’re older than I am.” He poked her in the side, and Thora giggled. Alistair rolled over, burying his face in the tender place where her neck joined her shoulder, breathing in her scent. “Maker, I love it when you laugh,” he said. He found a ticklish spot and she laughed again, squirming. “You know, that’s the first time I thought about you like this,” he said.

“When?” Thora threaded her hands through his hair.

“Standing by Duncan’s fire, you know, after your Joining, I made some stupid joke—“

“Cailan making you dance the Remigold in a dress,” she said, smiling at the memory.

“Right.” Alistair smiled against her neck. “You laughed, and I thought ‘I’d like to spend the rest of my life making that cute little dwarf laugh.’”

“Cute?!” she sputtered. “Cute?” She swatted at his arm. Alistair dodged the blow, capturing her hand in his.

“Remember,” he said, punctuating his words with soft kisses on her hand, “I’d never met a female dwarf before. And I still thought your performance in the Wilds was you trying to keep up with the men. I didn’t realize until later that you’d been taking it easy so we could keep up with you. And of course, by then …” His words trailed off and he shrugged. He still didn’t like to talk about the battle of Ostagar, or the period of depression he’d gone through afterward.

Thora kissed him to distract him from the dark memories. “That’s all past,” she said. “We’re here together, and our daughter is safe now.”

He hugged her. “I know. I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been—it’s the first time we’ve been together that some horrible doom hasn’t been waiting to crash on our heads.”

“Oh, I wish you hadn’t said that,” she groaned.

“What?” he asked. Then he rolled his eyes. “You dwarves, so superstitious. Never drink less than three mugs of ale at a sitting, knock on stone every time someone mentions the Dead Trenches—“ Thora reached out, grazing her knuckles along the stone wall—“and, of course, throw a nug over your left shoulder anytime … well, anytime.”

Thora grinned at him. “Those aren’t superstitions,” she said. “They’re just good sense.”

“So what possible doom could I bring down upon our heads just by saying there isn’t any?”

The smile faded from her face, and she looked at him seriously.

Alistair sat up, groaning. “Don’t say it. Do we have to talk about this now?”

Thora sat up, too, lacing her arms around her knees. “We have to. Because I’m not going to be able to stop doing this again, now that we’ve started, and neither are you.” She nipped his shoulder and Alistair shivered. “And that’s going to require us talking about it. At least.”

“What’s to talk about?” he said stubbornly. “She can’t stand me, she’s never liked you, and she’s spreading vicious rumors around the country.”

“Alistair, she’s your wife. Lawfully wedded and all. You can’t just set her aside.”

“Oh, yeah? Why not?” Alistair muttered. He ran his hand through his hair, groaning.

“Typical,” Thora said in irritation. She got up, pulling her shirt on. “You come in here, sweep me off my feet—“

“Which you thoroughly enjoyed,” he put in.

“Which I intend to enjoy again later,” she said, offering him a forgiving smile, “but Alistair, you had no plan at all. Now I’m stuck having to figure this out with you.”

He flashed her a tentative grin, conveying abashed apology and a hint of triumph with the shrug of his shoulders and the twinkle in his eyes.

Thora sighed in irritation. “Yes, you’re adorable. But when are you ever going to learn to think first and act later?”

Alistair stood up, staring down at her from his full height. “I did think,” he protested. “I thought of the taint spreading through my blood, my death sentence already delivered.” His eyes met hers, the teasing gone from his voice now. “I thought of the decade I spent in Eamon’s stables, where they could keep an eye on me for the sake of the kingdom but no one had to pay any attention to me; the decade stuck in the Chantry, where they knew I was safe from messing with Cailan’s accession, but they still knew where they could get me if there was a problem; the six short months of being a proud Grey Warden; the Blight, which brought me the only happiness I’d ever known and then took it away again. I thought of all the time I’ve spent apart from you, and the cold distance that put between us. I thought that I can’t bear to have that happen again. And I didn’t have to think about what that decision might cost me, because I know that I don’t care. My whole life has been spent in the service of Ferelden. For once, I’m taking something back.”

“All right,” she said softly. “I was wrong. You did think first. But now there are practical bits to consider.” She sighed. “I suppose I could just be the royal mistress.”

“You’d never be happy that way,” he said. “Besides, with these rumors, it can’t be that way. Any hint of secrecy would just confirm everything that hateful woman has said about you. And, incidentally, about me, as though I’m some witless calf to be led around by the ring in my nose.”

“Then what?”

He sighed. “I suppose I could step down from the throne, leave Eamon as regent until Duncan comes of age to take the crown.”

“You know you can’t. You owe your people better than that. You owe Duncan more than that.”

“So we’re agreed, then,” he said. “I’ll get Dorothea to annul the marriage, and then we can be together openly.”

Thora’s jaw dropped. “Just like that,” she said. “Really.”

“She doesn’t care for me. She likes being Queen, likes the power and the money that go along with that. All I have to do is find her someone richer and more powerful who’s willing to marry her.” He shrugged. “I know of a few Orlesian nobles who fit the bill and wouldn’t be … averse.”

Alarmed, Thora’s eyes flew to his face. It was a remarkably calculating way to think, especially for him.

Alistair met her eyes squarely. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Do you think I’ve been king all this time without learning to understand politics? Or been in so many battles without understanding tactics? She’ll be happy, we’ll be happy, no one needs to lose.” 

“But if the people don’t trust me, they’ll blame me for the loss of the Queen …”

“They do trust you! You’re the Hero of Ferelden! You saved them all from the Blight. If they’ve forgotten that, we’ll remind them. It’s a far bigger achievement than anything the Queen has done.” 

“Including bearing a legitimate heir to the throne?” Thora said. “She’s Duncan’s mother, no one will forget that.”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Alistair said bitterly. “She does.”

“Is there nothing I can say that will talk you out of this?”

“Can you think of any way that’s better? Or even equally good?”

“No.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to Redcliffe and I’ll become me again, then I’ll go back to Denerim and talk to Dorothea.”

Thora nodded, hoping the worry she felt didn’t show in her eyes. It sounded like a good solution—too good. 

“Hey,” he said, opening his arms. “Come here.” She did, and he lifted her, kissing her tenderly. “I love you, you know that.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“I’ll do anything I have to do to keep us from ever having to be apart again.” He stroked the back of her head, her short red hair twining around his fingers. “Will you do something for me?” 

“What?”

“Grow your hair back.”

Her answer wasn’t in words, but the promise in her kiss was agreement enough for him.


	62. Go Your Own Way

Thora opened her eyes to see the grey light of early morning coming through the window. She sighed, stretching languidly.

“Hey, don’t move yet,” Alistair protested sleepily. He curled around her, nuzzling the back of her neck.

She wiggled against the hard ridges of his muscles. 

“Well, I suppose you could move like that,” he murmured. He drew her closer into his arms, his teeth grazing her shoulder as one warm hand caressed her belly.

Thora rolled onto her back. “This is my favorite way to wake up,” she sighed.

“Mine, too,” Alistair whispered, bending to kiss her.

It was sleepy, and sweet, and hot. They rolled around in the tangled covers, giggling and kissing and stroking until at last they were joined, moving together in short, frenzied thrusts. Thora cried out first, then Alistair. He kissed her softly, smiling. 

“Let’s start every day off like this from now on, okay?”

“Okay,” Thora sighed. 

Alistair got up, stretching widely. “And now, love,” he said, “I need breakfast. Two breakfasts!”

“You and your appetite,” Thora groused, climbing out of bed. Her stomach rumbled, and she grinned. “Apparently me and my appetite, too.”

Thora collected her clothes before noticing that Alistair was standing in the middle of the room unmoving.

“What’s the trouble?” she asked.

He turned red, grinning sheepishly. “I left all my clothes—er, Anders’s clothes—in my room.” He motioned to the flimsy pants he was wearing. “This is all I have.”

“I guess you’ll have to hurry back to your room and hope no one else is awake at this hour,” Thora said, stifling a giggle.

Alistair’s face turned serious, and he caught Thora by the shoulders, his eyes darkening. “This is real, right? I mean, I’ve dreamed of this so many times, and it’s always— It never ...”

Thora took his face between her hands. “This is real,” she assured him. “I promise.”

He held her tight, burying his face in her hair and breathing in her flowery, coppery scent, filling his senses with it. With a parting kiss, he was off, heading for his room and Anders’s clothes.

For a few moments after he’d left, Thora stood motionless, a dreamy look in her brown eyes. Then her stomach growled again, and she headed for breakfast.

When Anawyn came to breakfast, she could tell something was different. Her mother and father were sitting next to each other, laughing and joking, and they kept giving each other goofy looks that seemed to amuse Leliana and Xandros and irritate Morrigan. About halfway through the meal, Morrigan put down her fork with a clatter.

“Honestly, ‘tis just as though we never stopped traveling,” she snapped.

“I think it’s cute,” giggled Leliana.

Thora looked at them both, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Exactly like the Blight,” Morrigan said, but there was a hint of a smile on her face.

After breakfast, they got ready to leave, saying their good-byes to the Tower’s inhabitants. Petra, her eyes still red-rimmed from grief, and Irving, looking as though he had aged a decade overnight, saw them off down the stairs. Dagna led the way through the Tower. At the bottom, before they went through the great doors out into the entry area, she handed Thora a specially made satchel that clinked. 

“I’ll see you soon,” she giggled. Thora took a bottle out of the bag, turning it slowly around in her hands. It glowed blue in the dim light, and she couldn’t wait to try it out and see what the Fade might be like. She slung the pack over her shoulder.

“The boat’s here,” called Alistair, who had returned to his impersonation of Anders. With a final hug to Dagna, Thora tucked the bottle back into the satchel and followed the others outside. 

As Kester rowed them across the lake, Xandros shifted to sit next to Thora. “Commander,” he said quietly.

“Xandros.” She had a fairly good idea what he wanted to say, but she enjoyed seeing the normally collected elf flustered.

“I, um, wondered if I might ask for a … leave of absence.”

“Going to see your family in Denerim, Xandros?” 

“Er, no,” he said, then flushed as Thora started to laugh. “But then, you knew that.”

“Yes.”

“I would like to escort Morrigan and Cybele to their home,” he said.

“Are you planning on returning after that?” she asked him seriously.

He glanced over his shoulder at Morrigan, who was trying to pretend she wasn’t listening. “I believe ‘planning’ would not be the accurate word at this point, Commander. Further discussion—much further discussion—must occur before anything can be considered planned.”

“I see.” She nodded. “Take two months, then report to me at the Vigil. We’ll talk then, all right?”

“Thank you, Commander.” His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled at Morrigan. The witch’s golden eyes glowed at him.

“Xandros, when are you planning to depart?” Thora asked.

“With your permission, Commander, immediately. It seems … safest to part company quickly.”

“Agreed.”

At the docks, they all climbed out of the boat. Thora pressed some coins into Kester’s hand. “Commander, I’m already paid by the—“

“I know that, Kester. Consider it a gift.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

They all stopped at the end of the dock. Xandros put out a hand to Thora, who hugged him instead, to the elf’s embarrassment. “Xandros, travel safely. We’ll see you in two months.”

“Yes, Commander.” He shook Alistair’s hand, hugged Anawyn, and bowed to Leliana.

Alistair cleared his throat nervously. “Um, Morrigan.”

“Yes, Alistair?”

“Will I— I mean, I’ll want to see Cybele. That … won’t be a problem, will it?”

Morrigan took a deep breath. “No. I suppose not. I will be in contact.”

“How soon?”

A flash of irritation crossed her face, but she covered it quickly. “Xandros is to report to Amaranthine in two months. Will it be well if we accompany him and see you there?”

Alistair smiled with relief. “Absolutely.” He turned to Cybele. “Take good care of yourself, little one. And your mother. I’ll see you soon, all right?”

“All right … Father.” Cybele smiled at him shyly, flushed with happiness at using that word for the first time.

Overcome, Alistair lifted her in his arms, hugging her. Cybele clung to him. “I am overjoyed to have met you, little one. And I can’t wait to see you again!”

“Me, too,” she said. “Me, too!” 

Alistair gave her a last squeeze and put her down. He kissed her quickly on the forehead. 

Cybele nodded and curtsied to Thora and Leliana. Then she turned to Anawyn. Both little girls’ chins were trembling, their eyes bright with tears. “I’m going to miss you so much, Anawyn,” Cybele said.

“Me, too.” She looked at Thora. “Mother, can Cybele come visit soon?”

“If it’s all right with her mother,” Thora said. 

“We will see you in two months,” Morrigan said, and the girls squealed and hugged each other again. Reaching into her pocket, Morrigan removed a ring and handed it to Anawyn. “If you wear this, you and Cybele will be able to sense each other, no matter how far apart you are.”

“Thank you!” Anawyn said, sliding the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. She and Cybele clasped hands, the scars made when they became blood sisters lining up.

“Thora. Alistair,” Morrigan said.

“Morrigan ... thank you for everything.”

“’Tis I who should be thanking you. Even more, I … offer my thanks to Anawyn.” The little girl blushed under Morrigan’s cool gaze. “I am most appreciative.” Morrigan looked at Alistair. They both started to say something and thought better of it. “Farewell,” Morrigan said finally. She joined Xandros and Cybele, and the three of them walked off past the settlement. Just before they turned the corner, Cybele looked back at Anawyn, waving wildly. Anawyn waved back, and then they were gone, and despite being with her parents at last, Anawyn felt suddenly alone.


	63. Night Moves

As Anawyn watched her sister, her best friend, walk off between Morrigan and Xandros, she couldn’t help the tears that filled her eyes and started to roll down her cheeks. They’d been inseparable, dependent on each other for so long, Anawyn hadn’t thought about what it would be like when they had to part. 

Thora put her arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “We’ll see her again soon, sweetheart. I promise,” she said. “Meanwhile, there are people waiting at Redcliffe who must be really worried about you by now. Shall we go reassure them?”

Anawyn sniffled, drawing her sleeve across her face. “All right, Mother.”

“Leliana, will you come with us? Or do you have somewhere you need to be?”

The red-headed bard smiled. “No, I think by now my colleagues will have informed the Chantry that the Temple of Andraste is no longer at Haven. I do not believe that funding will be renewed.”

“What will you do?”

Leliana shrugged. “I do not know. But I will start by coming along with you. Just like old times.”

“Good to have you with us,” Alistair said. “Ladies, the open road awaits,” he said, bowing exaggeratedly before them. Anawyn giggled through her tears. The four of them headed south toward Redcliffe.

It was a beautiful day to be on the march. Warm and sunny, the birds singing, the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. Thora turned her face up to the sun. Its warmth paled next to the warmth of Alistair’s smile, she thought, her eyes seeking out his face again.

He turned his head, catching her watching him. “Copper for your thoughts?”

The heat and love in his eyes turned her insides liquid. “I don’t think I should share these thoughts for money,” she said, her voice soft and suggestive.

“Oh? And what would I have to give?” Alistair moved closer to her, feeling young again, as if all the intervening years since they’d last been like this had disappeared.

“Well, you might have to give up those robes,” she said.

“Gladly,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m surprised more mages don’t go mad and become abominations, if they all have to wear these things.”

“I think Anders’s robes are a bit … tighter in places than those of other mages,” Thora said, suppressing a giggle.

“Show-off,” Alistair muttered. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy all that attention while we were in the Tower, all those apprentice mages ogling you.”

“It wasn’t the apprentice mages I was watching,” he said. He took her hand in his, bringing it to his mouth. “I only have eyes for you, you know that.”

Thora blushed as he kissed her hand, his eyes lingering on hers.

“Ahem,” Leliana sang from behind them, giggling. “There are children present, you two!”

“Is that a fancy way of saying ‘ewww’?” Anawyn asked. 

“Something like that.” 

“What she said, then,” Anawyn said. She looked at Leliana. “Have they always been that gross?”

“Oh, yes, always,” Leliana said. Her eyes danced at the sight of Thora’s red cheeks and Alistair’s abashed expression.

“Yuck,” Anawyn said vehemently. 

The adults chuckled. Anawyn grinned, too, secretly not minding at all. Seeing them together like that had been her dream for as long as she could remember. It was worth everything she’d been through and more, she thought, to get her parents back together and to find a sister she’d never even known she had. She skipped ahead, blissfully happy.

The day grew late, shadows stretching across the road. “We’ll never get to Redcliffe before dark,” Alistair said. He looked down at Thora. “Should we stop and camp somewhere?”

She bumped his side with her shoulder. “You just want an excuse to pitch a tent.”

Alistair grinned widely at the unintended double entendre. “Why, yes. Yes, I do,” he agreed. His eyes twinkled at her.

“All right, then,” Thora said, pretending reluctance. They found a clearing not far from the road, setting up a small camp. Leliana caught some fish that they fried for dinner, and the four of them sat around the fire, listening to its cheerful crackle. Anawyn yawned, leaning sleepily against Alistair’s side. He kissed the top of her head.

“Someone seems to be ready for bed,” he said.

She sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes. “No, no, I’m awake!”

“Anawyn, where do you want to sleep tonight? With us, or with Aunt Leliana?”

“Oh, stay with me,” Leliana said, with a roguish glance at Thora. “We can do each other’s hair, make up songs, talk about shoes …”

Anawyn’s eyes brightened. It did sound like fun. “Will it be okay if I sleep with Aunt Leliana?” she asked her mother.

“Perfectly okay,” Thora said, trying not to laugh at Alistair’s relieved expression.

“Shall we, then?” Leliana extended a hand to Anawyn, and the two of them ducked into the little tent.

“No watch tonight?” Alistair asked. 

“There doesn’t seem to be much need,” Thora said. “Besides, it’s not like we’ll be doing much sleeping, will we?” She laughed softly, and Alistair stood up. 

“That does it,” he said. “Tent. Now.”

She stretched her arms high above her head. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “The fire’s so pretty, maybe I’ll just—“

He grasped her hand, dragging her to the tent, a wordless growl coming from deep in his chest. 

Once inside the tent, Thora’s hands went for the buckles of her armor. Alistair began struggling with the intricacies of Anders’s robes, cursing when he couldn’t get the fastenings undone. Naked, 

Thora approached him, brushing his hands away.

“Let me,” she whispered.

Watching her head bent over the ties at his waist, Alistair was struck with a pang of jealousy. She seemed awfully familiar with these robes. “Have you ever--?”

Thora lifted her head to look at him. “Helped Anders out of his robes? A couple of times in the Deep Roads when he was injured. But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

“I … I can’t help it,” Alistair said. “We weren’t together, and he was there. With you, and with Anawyn, and you both talked about him so much and … did you ever?”

“No.” Her brown eyes looked into his unblinking. “We tried once. Long ago. It wasn’t right—not for me, anyway.”

“But did you think about it?”

“Did I ever wish I could just let go of my feelings for you and accept everything Anders had to offer? All the time. Didn’t you ever wish you could just be Dorothea’s husband?”

He ducked his head. “Yes,” he said in a small voice. 

“And yet here we are,” she said. “I thought you were done being jealous of him.”

“I was. I am! It’s just …”

“You wanted reassurance.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Every day for the past five years,” she said, her chin quivering. “It was awful having you be a stranger.” Thora took a deep breath. “Maybe I … sometimes … tried to make you jealous. Just to see if you still cared.”

“It worked,” he said bitterly.

“I know.” She smiled up at him. “Your face is an open book, my love.”

Alistair looked down at her lovely face, his heart at peace finally. “What does it say now?” he asked softly.

“It says I should hurry up and get these off you,” she said, attacking the ties again. They both whimpered when the robes were finally on the ground next to her armor, and Thora leaned down, taking his hot length into her mouth.

Groaning at the sensation, Alistair pumped his hips forward automatically. With an effort, he caught her shoulders, gently pushing her back. “Not this time,” he said hoarsely. “My turn.” He carried her to the bedroll, laying her down on the blankets.

He lay on his side next to her, his hand gently stroking her skin, taking one breast and then the other, cupping and squeezing them. His thumb rubbed lightly over her nipples as Thora squirmed beneath his touch, her breath coming faster. His hand moved on, slowly down over her stomach, stopping to trace each line left there by his child, and then dipping lower, through the red-gold hair to where her core throbbed. She arched against his hand, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her mouth open as his fingers slid inside her, pumping gently, rubbing in just the right spot. 

“Alistair,” she cried out, but softly, mindful of the other tent. Thora grasped his hand before it pushed her over the edge. And then he was on his knees, sinking back against his haunches, and Thora was climbing on top of him, lowering herself onto his length, their bodies pressed together as they moved, ebbing and flowing, everything falling away but the two of them. The heat and tension rose as they kissed feverishly. Thora grasped his shoulders as the wave of pleasure broke over her, and Alistair’s arms tightened around her. He buried his face in the curve of her neck to muffle his cries.

“Maker,” he said at last, “how have we gone without this for so long?”

Thora laughed, nuzzling the side of his neck. “I don’t know.”

Outside the tent, a night bird called and another one answered. Thora felt Alistair’s breath still for a minute, and his head lifted, listening. There were no other calls.

“What is it?” 

“Those birds …”

“They’re birds,” Thora said sleepily. “What, aren’t they Fereldan? Do we need to go send them back where they came from?”

“Oh, they may well be Fereldan,” Alistair said. “But they’re not birds.”


	64. Shadows of the Night

Alistair sat in the tent, listening intently, but there were no further sounds to follow the calls of the fake birds.

Thora got up, reaching for her armor. Alistair caught her arm. “Quietly,” he said.

She nodded, moving slowly to avoid too much clanking, watching as he tried to struggle into the robes as quietly as he could. “Who do you think?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know, but it can’t be good.” He sighed heavily. “Who am I kidding? Has to be Dirnley.” 

“Probably,” Thora agreed. Several comments came to mind, but it wasn’t the time for any of them. “I’ll go check on Anawyn. I’m less noticeable than you are.”

“With your armor, it’s a toss-up,” he said, but she was already ducking through the flap, staying low as she slipped across the short space to the other tent. 

“Leliana,” she whispered.

The bard opened the flap a bit. “We heard it, too,” she said. “We’re dressed.”

“Can you get Anawyn out of here?”

Leliana considered a moment, then nodded.

“Get to Redcliffe as fast as you can,” Thora said. “You should be safe there.”

“Also,” Leliana said quietly, “if Anders is caught impersonating the King …”

Thora swallowed. “That would be bad,” she agreed, her heart sinking. She’d played right into Dirnley’s, and therefore Dorothea’s, hands, hadn’t she? Split up the party, made both Alistair and Anders vulnerable. She shivered, hearing more of the fake bird calls and some rustling as people moved around the edge of the clearing. 

“And what if Teagan is somehow part of whatever is happening?” Leliana murmured.

“Let’s hope not,” Thora said. “You Orlesians and your conspiracy theories.” 

Leliana shrugged.

“Just be cautious. Scope out the lay of the land before you go in. Above all, take care of Anawyn.”

“Of course, my friend.” 

A smaller red head poked under Leliana’s shoulders. “Mother?” Anawyn’s eyes were wide.

“We need you to be brave, my girl,” Thora whispered. “Do what Leliana says, get to Anders and Oghren as fast as you can.”

“What about you and Father?”

“We’ll be fine. We’ve been through worse things.” Thora forced a smile. “Now hurry!”

The tiny opening in the flap closed, and Thora moved carefully back to the other tent. Not for the first time, she appreciated the dull black of her Legion of the Dead armor. 

She poked her head back into the tent. Alistair raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Thora nodded. “Leliana’s going to take her.”

“You think they can get away?”

“This is Leliana we’re talking about.” She paused as more bird sounds echoed across the camp. “They’re getting in position,” she said.

“Sodding Dirnley.” Alistair sighed. “I should have gotten rid of that sanctimonious meddler years ago.”

“Yes. You should have. Too late now, though. So what are we going to do?”

“I’d say we should fight our way out of it, but …” He looked down at the robes and staff. “I can’t fight like this.”

“No. You’d be killed, especially with no healer on hand.”

“All right, then.” Alistair squared his shoulders and set his jaw. 

“What are you doing?” Thora asked with trepidation as he pushed past her out of the tent.

“Dirnley!” Alistair shouted. “Show yourself, you traitorous bastard!” 

Thora rolled her eyes. Typical Alistair, charging into the fray. Of course, this time he was likely to get his fool self killed. She stepped away from the tent, standing behind him with her hand on her dagger hilt. 

They heard rustling in the underbrush. A voice said, “It’s the King!” Another one answered, “No, it just sounds like him.” Finally, the familiar crisp tones of Dirnley: “Ignore him, men. Keep your eyes open and hold your positions.”

“I can hear you,” Alistair said loudly. “Come out here, Dirnley, before I come in there.” It was a bluff, but he hoped Dirnley’s ingrained respect for authority would kick in. He ached for his armor—rage was boiling in him at the sheer nerve of this man, and he wanted to wade in and knock some heads together, show them that he was no soft-headed noble but a warrior, by the Maker! And he would not be trifled with.

Thora kept an ear out for anything that might indicate which way Leliana and Anawyn had gone. Which was silly, she knew, because Leliana was good enough that there wouldn’t be anything to hear. Still, the longer she and Alistair kept everyone’s attention on them, the farther the others could get.

“We are not dupes of blood mages,” Dirnley called out prissily. “We will not be fooled, whoever you are.”

“That’s right!” Thora shouted. “He’s learned to shapeshift—who knows where the real King is.” She ignored Alistair’s dumbfounded look; she just had to hope he would catch up and play along, at least for a little while.

“Do it now!” Dirnley shouted. Thora saw Alistair stiffen. He chuckled softly.

“What is it?” she asked.

“They have Templars,” he said quietly. “They’re trying to drain my power. Wish I had some,” he growled, flexing his hands. 

A deep voice spoke from another part of the darkness. “This man has no magic to drain. He is not a mage. The dwarf is lying.”

“Of course she is,” Dirnley snapped. “Don’t you think I know my own King?” That this was a direct contradiction of the last thing he’d said didn’t seem to bother him, but Thora shook her head. The mindless zealot. 

Raising his voice, Alistair said, “That’s right. There are no mages here. Blood or any other kind. I am Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, and as your King, I command you to show yourselves!”

There was silence for a few moments. Thora tried to control the trembling of her limbs. She was horribly afraid for Alistair—they had never stood against an enemy in such a vulnerable condition, and the wrong move might be fatal to him. She grasped the hilt of the dagger more tightly. Then the leaves rustled and two men came out into the clearing.

“Your Majesty,” one said, laying down his arms. “We heard …”

“Stop!” Dirnley stepped out, his crossbow cocked and leveled at Alistair’s unprotected chest. “This man speaks with a serpent’s tongue. He may look like our king, but he does not speak like him. He’s been bewitched.”

“Dirnley, you’re fired,” Alistair said, glaring at the other man contemptuously. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t have you executed.”

“Your Majesty.” Another voice came out of the darkness, crisp and cold and patrician, and behind it, the robed figure of Sister Honoria, second-in-command to the Revered Mother of Denerim. “Your Majesty, in your condition, you should calm yourself.”

Sister Honoria’s appearance had an electrifying effect on the campsite. A group of soldiers, accompanied by three Templars, emerged from the underbrush, standing in a circle around Thora and Alistair.

“What condition?” Alistair said impatiently.

Sister Honoria’s eyebrows rose, and she looked pointedly at his robes. 

Alistair flushed. “There’s nothing that says a man can’t wear whatever he chooses. Robes, armor, whatever.”

Thora’s eyes met Sister Honoria’s cold black ones. Of course, the Chantry would see giving Dorothea greater power to be nearly the same as getting themselves greater power. Discrediting Alistair and criminalizing the Grey Wardens would remove the Wardens, and their mages, from the country. They had underestimated this situation badly, she realized.

Bolstered by Sister Honoria’s presence, Dirnley looked triumphantly at Thora. “There she is, men, taking refuge behind our King! Secure the traitor.”

“Are you joking? This is the Commander of the Grey! The Hero of Ferelden!” Alistair shouted. “She is no traitor!”

A group of men emerged from the underbrush. Thora debated drawing her dagger, but she looked at Alistair. If she started something he was likely to be hurt, and she wouldn’t be able to help him. “Put down your weapons, and I’ll surrender quietly,” she said, her head high. “I have done nothing wrong, but I will not see any of you hurt over a misunderstanding.” She spoke the words quietly, but the young recruit nearest her blanched and took several steps away from her dagger arm. 

“Thora, you don’t have to do this,” Alistair protested.

“It’s all right, Your Majesty,” said Sister Honoria. “We shall take you back to the capitol, where the Revered Mother will see to removing your enchantment.” She nodded to a young recruit named Mort, who recoiled at the black look Alistair gave him.

“Take the dwarf’s weapons, men,” Dirnley said.

A brown-haired man with a mustache took Thora’s dagger. Carefully, she passed him her sword. “Be careful with it. This is King Maric’s blade.”

“That’s right,” Dirnley breathed. “A common little dwarf carrying Maric’s sword. That should never have been allowed.”

“You forget yourself, Dirnley,” Thora said. “The dwarves forged that sword.”

He ignored that, turning as a woman with blonde hair in little braids all over her head came up to him and Sister Honoria.

“Uh, sers?” she asked. “If this is the King, who is that at Redcliffe?”

Thora bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. Dirnley looked at her, his eyes dark and ugly with triumph. “Must be the mage there. Masquerading as the King. Tut, tut,” he said, looking down at Thora. He was enjoying this a bit too much, she thought, clenching her fist. She itched to hit him, but she knew that would only make things worse. 

“Sanders, Rickover, Shelton—off to Redcliffe, on the double. Catch that mage!” Sister Honoria barked. Three Templar-bucketed heads nodded, and they turned, moving off. Thora thought how slow the Templars moved, and hoped with all her heart that Leliana had enough of a lead.

Dirnley saw the direction of Thora’s gaze, and turned to look in the other tent. “I thought it had been a bit too quiet,” he said. “Where’s the child?” He looked into the tent, then back at Thora.

“Leave her out of this, Dirnley, I’m warning you,” Alistair said. “If you threaten my daughter, I’ll have you exiled into the Deep Roads.”

“Your daughter,” Dirnley said thoughtfully. “Your daughter, the mage. Is she the maleficar who’s bewitched our King? Maybe we’ll have to catch her and see.” He sneered at Thora, and this time she couldn’t help herself. Her fist shot forward, slamming into the codpiece of Dirnley’s armor. He shrieked like a girl, clutching himself and falling over. Thora was pretty sure that had been a mistake, but it had definitely been worth it, if only to hear the snickers of Dirnley’s own men.

The mustached one leaned over, looking Thora in the face. “Now, Commander, we don’t want to hurt you, but if you do that again … to anyone else, we’ll have to chain you up. Will you come quietly?”

She nodded. “Let’s go clear this up, then.”

“Are you sure?” Alistair asked. 

“It seems like the only way.”

“Keep … them … away from each other,” Dirnley gritted out between clenched teeth. 

“Your Majesty.” The young recruit, Mort, led Alistair to the head of the column. He twisted around, his eyes meeting Thora’s for a moment in a look filled with anger, despair, and humiliation, before Sister Honoria interposed herself between them, walking next to Alistair. Thora’s mustached captor brought her to the back of the column, and they all began the long walk back to Denerim, despite the darkness.


	65. Where Do We Go from Here?

Anawyn and Aunt Leliana made their way through the woods until they reached the lakeshore. There they paused for a brief moment, Leliana’s head turned back toward the camp, listening. There were no sounds, either of battle or of pursuit, and Leliana touched Anawyn’s shoulder, gesturing ahead. She leaned over, whispering quietly in Anawyn’s ear. “Shorter distance by shore. Can you keep up?”

Nodding, Anawyn followed the bard, doing her best to step where Leliana stepped. This whole turn of events had Anawyn completely bewildered. Who were they running from? What kind of trouble were her parents in? She wanted to go back, to see what was happening, to help her parents. For a moment, she stopped walking, hesitantly looking over her shoulder.

Leliana turned, putting her hands on Anawyn’s shoulders. She bent over, whispering fiercely in Anawyn’s ear. “They’ll be all right. And if you go back there, it will be worse for everyone. They need to know you’re safe, and you have to trust them. Can you do that?”

Anawyn looked up into Leliana’s face. She wasn’t used to seeing this all-business side of her fun-loving aunt. Remembering the battle with Flemeth, Anawyn thought of how all the adults had changed when the fight was at hand, their easy smiles giving way to set mouths and hard eyes. Each person had done their job, trusting all the others to be there: Anders in the background healing, Leliana and Xandros at the edges with their bows, her father’s sword and shield on the attack. It wouldn’t have worked, Anawyn realized, if they hadn’t all known the others would do what they were supposed to do. If this was battle, and her mother’s tense posture had indicated that it was, it wouldn’t work if Anawyn didn’t do what the others were counting on her to do—escape with Aunt Leliana and find Anders and the others at Redcliffe. 

She nodded at Leliana, squeezing the bard’s hand. Leliana nodded in return, her shoulders relaxing a bit. She turned, leading the way again, and the two of them walked steadily onward, Leliana sticking to the shadows and Anawyn stepping behind her.

Dawn was breaking as they approached the small village of Redcliffe. Anawyn’s eyes were drooping—she was so tired she was stumbling along behind Leliana, barely able to do more than put one foot in front of the other. Leliana found a protected spot behind a couple of rocks, drawing Anawyn into it. They took a moment to catch their breath, Leliana’s blue eyes scanning the shoreline ceaselessly. She handed Anawyn the water skin and some beef jerky. Anawyn hadn’t even noticed Leliana taking those things in their flight from their tent. 

“We have to hurry. Even if there are Templars,” Leliana said, “we should have gotten ahead of them. I’ve never understood why the Chantry uses exclusively warriors, and arms them all in such heavy plate. Mages in their light robes are much faster than anyone in heavy armor, even when their power’s been drained. Still, lucky for us.” She smiled reassuringly at Anawyn. “We’ll sneak in a back way I know, so no one will see us.” 

The food and water, in addition to the knowledge that they were almost there and could rest soon, were sending renewed energy through Anawyn. “Have you been here before a lot?” she asked, remembering to keep her voice quiet.

Leliana blushed pink. “A few times,” she said.

“Oh!” said Anawyn suddenly, remembering a conversation she’d overheard between her mother and Oghren and Felsi. “Ser Perth, right?”

Looking embarrassed, Leliana said, “Right.” She looked sad for a moment. “He wasn’t too happy to see me last time we were here.” But before Anawyn could ask any more questions, Leliana stood up, taking the little girl’s hand. “Let’s go. No time to waste.”

They skirted the village until they came to a small path in the rock that led up the cliff toward the castle. The path led them to a door in a vine-covered wall. Leliana removed a pin from her hair, her fingers expertly manipulating the lock until the door swung open, leading the two of them inside the walls and into the back of Redcliffe’s kitchen gardens. Holding her finger to her lips, Leliana led the way through the gardens and in through the scullery to the kitchens. 

A woman with a long nose who was stirring a big pot of something over the fire looked up as they entered. She winked at Leliana. “Back again, are ya? Good thing, too. He’s been right cranky since the last time.” She looked curiously at Anawyn, but asked no questions.

Leliana flushed. “Not this trip, Evangeline. Has … anything unusual happened recently?”

“You mean, besides dwarves all over the place and the King himself here for a visit, callin’ for all sorts of exotic food? No, it’s been normal as an aching knee on a rainy day.”

“Can you tell me where the dwarf is?” Leliana asked. 

“Which one?” snorted Evangeline. “The girl one is a shadow—like you. She could be standing right next to me, for all I know. The other one’s either passed out in his room or in the cellar. That man can drink a year’s worth of ale in a day,” she said. “The Grey Wardens will be hearing from the Arl for replacements when he leaves, believe me.”

“Oh, Oghren would happily replace it all,” Leliana said, “but I don’t think you’d want what you’d get in return.” She smiled. 

“Give a good sniff, you can probably smell him,” Evangeline muttered, turning back to stirring the pot.

Anawyn’s stomach growled loudly. It seemed like such a long time since she’d had a really full stomach—only those couple of good meals in the Tower since she’d left the Vigil all that time ago.

The cook smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment to my cooking, miss,” she said. “Come back when you can and I’ll feed you right up,” she added, with another questioning glance at Leliana.

“Count on it,” Leliana said. She took Anawyn’s hand and led her from the kitchen. In the hallway, Anawyn could feel the tingling that signaled the presence of Grey Wardens, and she pulled Leliana to a stop. 

“Why are we looking for Oghren?” Anawyn asked. “Shouldn’t we get to Anders first?”

“I want to try and get everyone together. Can you feel them?” There was a new sense of partnership in Leliana’s eyes as she looked down at Anawyn. She was trusting Anawyn to do her job. 

Anawyn felt a warm glow at being treated like one of the company. She closed her eyes, trying to isolate the sensations of each of the Wardens. 

“Basement,” she said. “Did the cook say there are cellars?”

“Oghren, Oghren,” Leliana said, shaking her head as she led the way. “It’s too early in the morning for him to be at it already.”

“Maybe he was there all night,” Anawyn said, giggling softly.

“Aye, there,” came the unmistakable growl as they moved down the basement stairs. “Show yerselves—cave tick?!” The bristling red head appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Cave tick!” he roared, holding his arms out. “Yer all right! So glad to see ya, girl.” Anawyn ran to hug him, feeling the scratch of his braided beard on her cheek. It was a relief to be here and safe, she thought.

Over her head, Oghren looked at Leliana. “Where’s the Commander?”

“They ran into a bit of trouble,” Leliana said. “Where’s Anders?”

“Ya mean Alistair.”

“No, I think that particular feline is out of the sack,” Leliana said. “Our camp was surrounded last night. We got out before we could find out who it was, but—“

“The Queen, you think?” Oghren said in a remarkably quiet tone.

Leliana nodded. “If they haven’t been here already, they’ll be coming soon, I would think.”

Oghren picked up his ever-present mug, draining it. “Let’s go,” he said, dragging Anawyn up the stairs after him.

Sigrun and Jens were standing guard outside Anders’s door. Both of them beamed when they saw Anawyn, their smiles fading when they realized Thora and Alistair weren’t there. Quickly they all went into Anders’s room. 

The mage turned from the window he was staring out of. “Maker be thanked, it’s over! I’ve never been so bored. I thought about escaping just to make things more interesting.” He looked past Leliana. “They downstairs with Teagan?”

“They’re not here.” Hastily she explained again, Anders’s face paling as he caught up. 

“What do we do now?” he asked. 

“Go after ‘em!” Oghren shouted, waving his mug around. “Kill ‘em!”

“We must be cautious,” Leliana said. “We do not know what type of trouble it is yet.”

“We must rescue the King,” Jens put in. “His safety is the most important thing.”

“And the Commander’s!” Sigrun added. “She seems like the likely target.”

“Yer crazy,” Oghren shouted at Leliana. “When did bein’ cautious ever help anything?”

“The Commander is not the priority,” Jens said doggedly to Sigrun. “We must save the King first.” The four of them degenerated into a heated squabble.

Anders looked at Anawyn, sitting miserably on the edge of the bed. He knelt in front of her. “Don’t mind them,” he said quietly. “We’ll let them fight it out, then we’ll all think of something.” 

The din was cut off when the door swung open. Teagan stood there, with Perth behind him. “There are three Templars downstairs who have come for the man masquerading as the King,” Teagan said, his voice even.


	66. Dressed for Success

The column of troops walked so long into the night that Thora wondered if they were hoping to walk straight through to Denerim without a break. An impossible goal, really, but she wouldn’t put it past Dirnley and Sister Honoria to make the attempt. But at last, when the moon was high overhead, they called a halt. Thora’s mustached guard, whose name, she had learned, was Jones, escorted her to a corner of the campsite. He stood near her while people bustled about collecting firewood and fetching water. It was a mess. Thora longed to stand up and take charge, make some order out of the chaos. No camp she’d ever run had been this much of a disaster. Over the din, she heard Alistair’s raised voice.

“This is not to be borne! There are no mages anywhere nearby, you had your Templar cleanse me, what more proof do you want that there is no blood magic?”

Thora couldn’t hear what Sister Honoria said, but all of Ferelden probably heard Alistair’s response. “She is not a traitor!” he bellowed. “And you’re all ungrateful wretches. How quickly you’ve forgotten what she did for you. Any other Blight would still be going on right now! The land under our feet would be blackened and tainted for generations to come. But Thora stopped all that—and now you want to call her a traitor based on unsubstantiated accusations?”

“Those accusations come from the Queen,” Dirnley responded coldly. The camp was quieting as several of the chores were dropped half-finished so the workers could listen in on the argument.

“And what does the Queen know?” Alistair asked. “What you’ve told her?”

“It was all the truth,” Dirnley said, his tone smug.

“You miserable spy,” Alistair said. “Where’s your pride?”

“Where is yours, Your Majesty?” Sister Honoria had raised her voice as well. “Carrying on with your paramour, concocting some ridiculous story about your daughter to cover up your affair?”

“Which is it, Sister? Am I under the spell of a blood mage or am I a simple adulterer? You might want to get your story straight before we get back to Denerim.” Thora recognized the growing danger in the quiet tones. Alistair was a genial man, cordial and pleasant to a fault, which made it easy for others to assume he could be pushed around. But he was getting angry now—almost angry enough to push back against the leaders of this little coup and regain his authority. Thora could tell by his stance that the robes, constricting and unfamiliar and faintly ridiculous on him, were keeping him just enough off-kilter to prevent him from exercising his full power. Her mind raced, trying to figure out how to neutralize the effect of the robes.

Jones came over to Thora, holding out a cup of water. When she reached to take it, he said quietly, “I heard a rumor that the King killed Flemeth. The Flemeth! The soldier I heard it from said the King faced her down single-handed, with nothing in hand but a dagger and a piece of rope.”

Thora grinned. _Thanks, Teagan_ , she thought. 

“That true?” Jones asked.

“If I tell you the story, will you do me a favor?” she asked.

Jones blinked. “Will I get in trouble for it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Fire away, then.” He sat down next to her, leaning down to hear her better. 

Alistair was still arguing himself hoarse, making no headway at all into the dense wall of self-righteousness that Dirnley and Sister Honoria had built around themselves. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm. It was the young recruit, Mort. “Your Majesty?” Mort asked shyly.

“It’s not a good time,” Alistair said.

“I have … I thought you might like something else to wear,” Mort said nervously. Dirnley began to protest, but Alistair waved him silent in a gesture so unconsciously royal that Dirnley obeyed it out of instinct. 

“Why, thank you, Mort,” Alistair said, following the young recruit across the campsite. Just the thought of getting out of the robes and into a proper set of armor made him stand straighter. It was hard to be appropriately authoritative when you were poncing about looking ridiculous. 

Mort dug through some packs, finding pieces of armor. “Truth be told, sire,” he whispered, looking around anxiously, “it wasn’t my idea.”

“Whose idea was it?” Alistair asked, but as he doffed the robes—he ripped off the ties impatiently, thinking with longing and anger about the last time these robes had come off and who had undone the ties with her clever little fingers—he knew he didn’t have to ask. He and Mort came out from behind the bushes where Alistair had changed, and across the campsite Alistair caught Thora’s eye. She grinned at him, and he blew her a kiss. Ostentatiously.

Even in the mismatched armor, pieces of which didn’t quite fit, the change of clothes had revitalized Alistair, Thora thought as she watched him walk across the camp. People automatically moved out of his way, and several of them bowed out of instinct. She remembered the boy she’d met at Ostagar, the nervous jokes, the self-deprecation meant to deflect any kind of serious responsibility, and she felt a warm glow of pride in him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice—the one that often whispered to her that she’d done the wrong thing, that this whole dire mess was her fault for making him King in the first place—was stilled. 

Lost in her thoughts, Thora hadn’t realized that Alistair was walking toward her. As he approached, Dirnley moved to stand between them. “Your Majesty, you must not speak to her.”

“How exactly do you intend to stop me, Dirnley?” Alistair said in a deceptively pleasant voice. 

Dirnley fidgeted as the import of the question hit him. His hand drifted in the direction of his sword hilt, then moved away as though it had been burned. He cast a swift glance over Alistair’s shoulder at Sister Honoria.

Before the Sister could speak, Alistair said, not taking his eyes off Dirnley, “I don’t think you want to ally the Chantry with this man. As a matter of fact … Septimus Dirnley, you are under arrest for treason against the Crown. Mort, relieve Dirnley of his weapons.” When nothing happened immediately, Alistair raised his voice a notch. In the same pleasant tone, he said, “Now, Mort.”

The young soldier moved forward, taking Dirnley’s sword and shield.

“You can’t do this,” Dirnley said, drawing himself up proudly. “I am duly appointed by the Queen as special investigator.”

“So because the Queen says it’s okay, spying on the King is suddenly no longer treason,” Alistair said, sounding amused. “I don’t think it works quite that way, Dirnley.” He leaned closer to the other man, stage-whispering. “You should have known better.”

“You are a danger to yourself and others in this condition, Sire,” Sister Honoria put in. “You’re a danger to your son. We must heal you.”

“NO!” Alistair whirled on her, his eyes blazing. “You will not mention my son.”

“The one you’ve left alone in Denerim all this time?” Dirnley asked. His eyes glowed as he seemed to be regaining the upper hand.

Jones stood up. He cast a reassuring smile at Thora before he said, “I heard the King had to go kill Flemeth because the witch had kidnapped his daughter and said his son would be next. His Majesty had no choice.”

Alistair looked at Jones, one eyebrow raising in surprise. But he recovered quickly, turning back to Sister Honoria. “You see? I had no choice. Besides, the Chantry won’t have to lose any more Templars in the Korcari Wilds … should save you all quite a bit of money.”

Sister Honoria gave the King a calculating look. Then she stepped deliberately away from Dirnley, who looked at her in shock.

“Mort,” Alistair said quietly, “this man is under arrest.” 

“Sire, you don’t want to do this,” Dirnley protested.

“Don’t I? Oh, I think I do. Dorothea should have warned you what happens to spies and traitors. Tie him up, Mort. There’s no telling what kind of sneakiness he might get up to if we left his hands free.” Mort did so.

“You’ll regret this!” Dirnley said, his tone filled with ineffectual menace.

“Possibly. But not as much as I’m enjoying it,” Alistair said. He turned to Sister Honoria. “Sister, we are returning to Denerim, where a public hearing will be held to determine the relative innocence and guilt of Thora Aeducan and Septimus Dirnley. Until that point, I am in charge. Am I clear?”

The woman’s eyes blazed, but she was no fool. “Yes, sire. Of course.”

“Excellent.” Alistair was looking away from her almost before the word was out of his mouth. “Jones, thank you for your service today. Would you be so kind as to act as the Commander’s bodyguard for the rest of the trip? I would not want anything to happen to her.”

“Yes, Sire.” Jones bowed.

Alistair turned to Thora, holding his hand out to her. “Now, love, shall we see about getting something hot to drink?”

As she took his hand, Thora made a mental note never to ask him to leave his armor behind again.


	67. The Great Pretender

Anawyn looked up at Teagan, wide-eyed. He wasn’t going to let the Templars take Anders, was he? She’d met Teagan before, but only briefly, and he looked awfully forbidding standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. It was hard to tell what his intentions were.

“I don’t suppose you have any robes around, do you?” Anders asked. “As a Grey Warden mage, Templars have no jurisdiction over me or my actions.”

“For that matter,” Leliana said, “Templars have no jurisdiction in matters of state. We have no obligation to let them have Anders, mage robes or no mage robes.”

“That is an excellent point,” Teagan said. “What would be even more excellent would be if someone told me what is going on!”

Leliana stepped forward to speak, but Anawyn got there first. “Ser, my parents’ camp was surrounded last night. We didn’t get the chance to find out who it was—they asked Aunt Leliana to bring me here. We left them behind, ser! Will you please help them?”

Teagan put a hand on Anawyn’s shoulder. “I’ll do everything I can,” he said kindly. “Your parents saved my life, did you know that?” She shook her head, and he squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it someday.” Over her head, he caught Leliana’s eye. “Is there anything you can add?”

“Not really. Thora was mostly concerned with getting Anawyn out of danger—and with getting here before anyone caught Anders masquerading as the King.” She shot the mage an apologetic look. “We did our best.”

He grinned at her. “They haven’t caught me yet.”

“What I have to wonder,” Teagan said, “is what they’re doing here—is the Chantry somehow involved with your camp being surrounded last night? And if so, why?”

“The Queen spends a lot of time in the Chantry,” Jens put in. 

“So if the Chantry sides with the Queen, does that increase their power?” Anders asked. “Because that’s just what Ferelden needs, more Chantry oversight.”

“You speak as if the Chantry is the enemy,” Perth said.

“I’m a mage,” Anders said, his eyes hard. “The Chantry _is_ my enemy.”

“The Chantry keeps the mages under control so we’re not all victims of walking abominations,” Perth said heatedly.

“That’s what they’d like you to think,” Anders retorted. 

“I know what it’s like!” Perth shouted. “If you’d seen what happened here—!”

“Stop it!” Leliana said. “This is not the time to argue politics!”

“She’s right,” Teagan said. “We need to decide what we’re going to do. Because technically, if they knew she was here, the Templars could …” His voice trailed off, and he glanced toward Anawyn and hastily away.

“No, they can’t,” Anders said. “She’s a Grey Warden, too. Born and bred. They would have to have an order straight from Weisshaupt Fortress to lay a hand on either of us.”

“Not on my watch, they won’t,” Oghren growled. 

“Nor mine,” Teagan assured them. “But the greater question is what can we do to help Thora and Alistair? Because I don’t think any of us want the throne taken over in some kind of Chantry-supported coup, or civil war. Both of which are possibilities if the Chantry decides to oppose Alistair’s rule. And they might, if the story that he’s under the control of some maleficar gains enough credence. I have done what I can to refute that story, putting about instead the tale of the King’s great valor in facing down the Witch of the Wilds, and I think there has been some change in the wind already. It’s amazing the results you can get if you get the right people drunk,” he mused.

“I been sayin’ that fer years,” Oghren said, raising his mug.

“He didn’t mean you,” Anders said.

“If the shoe fits,” Sigrun said, giggling.

“But what are we going to do?” Anawyn asked. “Ser?” She tugged at Teagan’s hand.

“Don’t worry, little one.” He put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. “Your parents are very smart and very skilled, and they are both well loved by the people of this country. It would take a lot for anything serious to happen to them.” He looked up at the rest of them. “First order of business, get rid of these Templars. I suppose they’ll know you’re a mage?” he asked Anders.

“Sadly, yes,” Anders said. “Besides, if they said they’re here for the person masquerading as the King, they probably already know Alistair isn’t me.”

“If you’ll allow me,” Leliana said, standing up. “Getting rid of unwanted men used to be something of a specialty of mine.”

“Why should you have all the fun, missy?” Oghren growled. “Let’s go hunt us some Templars.”

“And do what, exactly?” Perth said. 

“He doesn’t think that far ahead.” Anders smiled fondly at the dwarf. “It’s part of his charm.”

“I believe it’s a good idea to give these Templars the idea that their intrusion isn’t welcome. And perhaps to find out what they know. Oghren, Leliana, and Jens, please come with me,” Teagan said. 

“Heh. Too bad, sparkle-fingers.” Oghren winked at Anders, following Teagan and the others out of the room. 

Perth reached out a hand toward Leliana, but she didn’t see the gesture. The door closed softly behind them.

“If you want some advice,” Anders said, looking at the tall knight, “I wouldn’t let that one get away.”

“I can handle it myself, thank you,” Perth said stiffly.

“That’s not how it looked from where I’m standing,” Sigrun said.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, either,” Perth said. He kept his eyes on the door, looking wistful. “Besides, she’ll be searching for Andraste again as soon as she can get more Chantry funding.”

“I don’t think so,” Anders said slowly. 

“There’s nothing there anymore,” Sigrun said. “Anyone can see that.” She sighed wistfully. “I wanted to see that Temple, too.”

Anawyn ignored the adult conversation, staring hard at the door.

Downstairs, Teagan entered the salon where the Templars waited, all three standing stiffly at attention. 

“Have you brought the mage impostor?” one said, his voice echoing inside the helmet.

“I have not,” Teagan said. “Nor have I confirmed that there is such a person.”

“Ser, we have orders not to leave without him,” said the second Templar.

“You have no authority here,” Teagan said.

“We have the Queen’s permission to carry out this mission in her name.” The first Templar took a step forward. “It would not be wise to get in the way of our duty.”

Teagan nodded at Jens, who stepped into the room, looking down from his great height at the Templar. “I am in the King’s service,” the big man said mildly. “It would not be wise to get in my way.”

“You think we’re going to go away because you threaten us?” The third Templar, a woman, scoffed. She tilted up the visor of her helmet, revealing a pair of blue eyes that glared at Teagan. “The mage is a suspected maleficar. We have every right—“

“You have no rights over a Grey Warden, maleficar or not,” Oghren said, stepping into the room. He leaned casually on his hammer.

“Who might you be?” the female Templar sneered. 

“Oghren Kondrat, Second in Command of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden.” For once, there was no swagger or bluster in his tone. “I can’t hand the mage over without authorization from Weisshaupt. You got some?”

The Templars looked at each other, at a loss. 

Leliana slipped in. She nodded cordially at the three Templars. “Shelton,” she said in delighted surprise, smiling at the woman. “And who is that with you? Sanders?” 

“And Rickover,” said the first Templar. “Hello, Leliana.”

“Fancy meeting you all here,” Leliana said. She cast a smile at a startled Teagan. “Spend enough time asking the Chantry for money,” she said quietly, “you meet everyone.” Turning back to the Templars, she said, “What are you doing here?”

“We came for the mage who is masquerading as the King,” Shelton said.

Leliana laughed, a tinkling, lovely laugh that made everyone in the room relax unconsciously. “He’s not impersonating the King, he’s the King’s cousin!”

“What?”

“Oh, yes,” Leliana said. Her voice was warm and confiding, as though she were imparting a special secret. “It’s one of those complicated royal bloodline things. You know nobles, always intermarrying and having each other’s children.” She nodded at the Templars. “I can see why you’d be confused.” 

“But … Sister Honoria said …” Rickover stammered.

Leliana sighed. “Sister Honoria may have been misinformed. You’ll want to hurry back to Denerim, though—you won’t want to miss the celebration.”

“Celebration of what?” The three Templars were clustered around Leliana now, hanging on her every word. 

“The defeat of Flemeth, of course!”

“ _The_ Flemeth?”

“Who defeated Flemeth?”

“When’s the party?” This last was from Oghren, so caught up in Leliana’s tale that he’d forgotten her role.

Leliana twisted around to glare at the dwarf. “The King killed Flemeth, and scattered her bones. The Korcari Wilds are safe for the first time in a thousand years, thanks to His Majesty!”

“But—we heard …” Shelton’s voice trailed off, and she stared at Leliana, whose wide blue eyes returned the look innocently. “Apparently we did not have the full story.”

“I should say not. When you get back to Denerim, you should complain,” Leliana said, putting a companionable arm over the Templar’s shoulders and slowly walking with her out of the room. The other Templars followed, leaving Jens and Teagan and Oghren staring at each other dumbfounded.

“So that’s what a bard does,” Oghren said at last. “Almost easier’n gettin’ ‘em drunk.”

Leliana came back into the room, giggling. “Well, they’re off, heading for Denerim.”

“Hats off to you, my lady,” Teagan said. “That was brilliant.”

“Thank you, kind ser.” 

They returned to Anders’s room. Anders and Perth had clearly been pacing, and Sigrun sat on the bed with her arm around Anawyn.

Perth’s eyes went straight to Leliana’s face, searching it. She nodded. “They decided to leave.”

“Decided?” Anders asked.

“It’s a long story,” Teagan said, “and best told on the way to Denerim.” Leliana looked at him in surprise, and he grinned. “You think I’m going to sit this one out? I wouldn’t miss this for all of Thedas!”


	68. Breathe Again

“What do you think he looks like now?” Alistair looked eagerly down at Thora, who smiled at him affectionately.

“You know I’ve never met Duncan. I don’t know what he looked like before.”

“Just guess. Please?” He cast her an imploring glance and Thora could see how badly he wanted her to share his anticipation.

“All right,” she relented. “I’ll say he’s going to be … taller.”

“Taller than you, maybe.” Alistair bumped her arm with his hip. “But then again, who isn’t?”

Thora narrowed her eyes at him. “Careful, there.”

“And what are you going to do, exactly?” He grinned. 

“If we weren’t surrounded by a bunch of soldiers who don’t trust me, we’d see who’s better—the tall human hiding behind the little shield, or the diminutive swordswoman who doesn’t have to hide behind anything.”

Alistair laughed. “Why haven’t we ever done that? I could really use the bragging rights.”

Thora snorted. “Too bad you wouldn’t come away with any.”

Sister Honoria, walking ahead of them, turned around to glare, which completely spoiled the mood. Alistair looked toward the towers of Denerim, hovering just on the edge of the horizon and stubbornly refusing to seem any closer, and sighed heavily. Much as he tried to picture a glorious reunion with his son, the presence of Sister Honoria was a constant reminder that all was not entirely right in his kingdom, not when a Chantry elder of her stature could be sent to essentially arrest the reigning monarch. His imagination painted vivid pictures of Duncan afraid of him, Duncan kept from him, Duncan having been sent away from Denerim entirely. He shivered in the sunlight.

Thora looked up at him, reading his thoughts in his face. She wanted to offer reassurance, but the same concerns filled her heart. All she could do was walk beside him, moving ever closer to the answers to their questions.

As they approached Denerim, Alistair could smell the familiar wet-dog scent of the city. His stride quickened, and he outpaced the rest of the group easily. Thora had to jog to keep up with him, but she was used to that after all the time they’d spent on the march together, and she remained at his side, her presence and support comforting. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching Sister Honoria try to hurry in her robes, sharp displeasure lining her face. 

The road was becoming more crowded as they neared the city. Thora and Alistair used that to their advantage, weaving a bit between carts and carriages and other travelers. Slowly the gap between Alistair and Thora and those behind them grew wider. Thora glanced back over her shoulder. Jones wasn’t far behind, and a few of the other soldiers were with him. They were hurrying to try and catch up, spurred on by Sister Honoria’s sharp voice, but Thora caught Jones’s eye and shook her head. Immediately, he spoke to the soldiers around him, and their pace began to slow.

A cart rumbled up next to Alistair, who drifted to the left of the road to let it pass. Instead, it slowed to keep pace, and a familiar face leaned over the edge of the seat.

“Need a lift, Your Majesty?”

Startled, Alistair looked up at the dwarf, and a grin slowly spread across his face. “Bodahn, for the last time, please call me Alistair,” he said.

“Aye, sir.” The dwarf smiled back, both of them knowing he never would. “Hop up. You, too, Commander.”

“Bodahn, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Talk to the boy, Commander,” the dwarf said cheerfully. Alistair settled onto the seat next to Bodahn and held out a hand, pulling Thora as she scrambled onto the seat as well. Sandal beamed at them both from the back of the cart. “It’s a tight squeeze,” Bodahn said. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No need for apologies, Bodahn. Go quickly, please,” Alistair said. He clung tightly to the hand Thora slipped into his, eyes glued to the gates of the city up ahead.

Bodahn clucked to the mules, who broke into a jerky trot. “Yep,” he said, “I was all for headin’ up toward Orzammar, but the boy, he was havin’ none of it. Said ‘Denerim’ till I gave in just to hear him say ‘Enchantment’ again.” 

Thora twisted in the seat, smiling gratefully at Sandal. The blond dwarf smiled shyly in return. “Imagine Sister Honoria’s face,” she whispered to Alistair, but he was too agitated to pay attention.

The wagon pulled up to the gates of Denerim, the guard, a grizzled veteran, coming forward to speak with Bodahn. His eyes widened as he recognized the King and the Hero of Ferelden on the seat of the cart. “Your Majesty! We— You— I mean, you wouldn’t believe the things we’ve heard.” 

“I suspect I would, Arnesen. How’s the wife?”

“Poorly, Majesty. It’ll chirk her right up to know you’ve come back.”

“Glad I could brighten her day.” Alistair smiled down at the guard. “Anything I should know?”

“Long’s you’re all right, sire, nothin’ else to worry about it.” The guard bowed deeply, before stepping back and allowing the wagon to pass.

“Thank you,” Alistair said distractedly. He could feel tension tightening within him as the wagon moved through the gates and toward the palace. He gripped Thora’s hand harder.

In the back, Sandal smiled happily. “Denerim!” 

Soon enough, the wagon got mired down in traffic. “It’s probably faster if we get down and walk from here,” Alistair said. He turned to Bodahn. “Time and again, Bodahn, you and Sandal have rendered invaluable assistance to this nation. Anything you ever want, it’s yours.”

“Sire, the open road and a chance to sell our wares, it’s all we ask. Maybe with no taxes?” Bodahn suggested with a grin.

“Done, and gladly,” Alistair said. He grasped Bodahn’s hand, shaking it heartily. Sandal’s smiling face peeped over Bodahn’s shoulder, waving.

Alistair bounded down from the wagon seat, helping Thora down behind him. They moved swiftly through the press of people—most of whom got quickly out of their way. He ran up the steps, not waiting for the guards at the doors—he threw open the palace doors himself, charging into the entry hall. Every person in the room turned to stare, their jaws dropping.

Several people converged on the door at once, the babble of their questions deafening.

At last, Alistair’s voice cut through the din. “Enough! Silence!” he called. “All questions can wait. First thing—where is my son?”

A man Thora dimly remembered from a previous visit to the palace looked up from where he knelt at Alistair’s feet. “In his room, sire.”

“Thank you.” Alistair nodded at the man, stepping forward into the crowd. People stood up from their kneeling positions, letting him through, Thora hurrying in his wake. She hoped with all this mess they could reach Duncan before Dorothea knew Alistair was back. 

As they reached the door of Duncan’s room, two guards Alistair didn’t recognize moved in front of them, blocking their entry. 

“Orders, sire.”

“I am the King of Ferelden,” Alistair hissed at the guard. “I give the orders in my palace. Now, move, or by the Maker, I will move you!”

The guard looked up into Alistair’s face—and got out of the way. 

“Good choice,” Alistair said grimly, opening the door. Thora waited outside, to try and intercept any trouble that might be coming.

Inside, Duncan’s nurse looked up, startled, from the castle of blocks she and the boy were building. Her eyes filled with fear, and she stood up, backing away. Duncan, of course, was oblivious, stacking a block on top of a wall with utter concentration, his little pink tongue sticking out from between his teeth. Alistair watched for a moment, drinking in the sight, before saying quietly, “Duncan.”

The little boy looked up, his mind still on the castle. He stared at his father for a minute, before recognition dawned, and a smile of joy lit his face. He got up, launching himself across the room. “Daddy! Daddy, you’re home! You’re safe!”

Tears filled Alistair’s eyes as he took the little boy up in his arms, holding him close.

In the hallway, Thora smiled when she heard Duncan’s exclamation, but the smile quickly faded as she heard a commotion coming down the hallway. With a small retinue trailing behind her, Ferelden’s queen strode angrily down the hall. She came to a halt when she spied Thora, her eyes widening in outrage.

“What in the name of Andraste are _YOU_ doing here?!”


	69. The Confrontation

Dorothea stared down at the dwarf in dismay. This was not at all what was supposed to happen! The dwarf was supposed to be in Dirnley’s custody, far away from Alistair. But here she was, in the middle of Dorothea’s palace, and Dirnley was nowhere to be found. “Where is the King?” Dorothea demanded.

The dwarf stared back at her insolently. “Where do you think?”

All those months of careful planning, and things were already falling apart. Dorothea drew herself up to her full height. “Arrest that dwarf!” she commanded her guards. “She is the one who has bewitched our King and caused him to turn his back on his country! He is not safe, nor are any of us, until she is removed.”

“Stand down, men!” The dwarf’s voice snapped with command, and Dorothea’s guards stood frozen in place, staring back and forth between the Queen and the dwarf. “May I remind Your Majesty,” the dwarf said, “that I am not a Fereldan citizen. I am a dwarf and a Grey Warden, and as such am not subject to your jurisdiction.”

“That all may be true,” Dorothea said, “but you are in Denerim, inside the palace, and I am perfectly within my rights to have you removed.”

“You and whose army, Your Majesty?”

Dorothea didn’t care at all for the dwarf’s tone, but it was a good chance to play one of the high cards in her deck. “The Chantry’s.”

“And what have you promised them, in return for betrayal of King and country?”

“For someone who so loudly claims not to be a Fereldan citizen, you seem remarkably concerned about the King … and country.” Dorothea swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. What Alistair saw in this plain little dwarf with her mannish red hair, she had never understood.

“I saved this country, Dorothea,” the dwarf said now, and Dorothea ground her teeth hearing her name used so casually. “I have a vested interest in Ferelden’s safety.”

“Is that what you were thinking about when you bedded my husband?” Dorothea hissed, leaning over to put her face closer to the dwarf’s. She was pleased to see the other woman pale, and even more pleased to see that the dwarf had no snappy rejoinder. “You and Alistair seem to think you can do whatever you want and get away with it, but you’ll pay. Wait and see.”

“Dorothea …” the dwarf began, but it was too much.

“You will refer to me as ‘Your Majesty’!” Dorothea cried. “You have no right to speak to me as if you’re my equal!” Her fists clenched at her side. Here in her own palace, disrespected to her face by her husband’s trollop, and in front of her guards, too. It was not to be borne. “How dare you!”

She might have gone on, but the door to Duncan’s room opened, and Alistair stood there. Once upon a time, Dorothea had found him handsome, charming, and desirable, but years of being cheated on made him seem dirty now, as if the mud the dwarf had grown up in now clung to the man in front of her. Oh, they might claim they hadn’t been together all those years he’d been running off to Amaranthine, but Dorothea knew better. It was there now in the look they exchanged—he looked at the dwarf with a respect and confidence he had never shown his own wife. Dorothea found herself almost on the verge of crying, and she’d promised herself long ago that she’d never cry for him again.

“What is all this racket?” Alistair asked, looking disapprovingly at Dorothea.

“Ask her,” she said, pointing to the dwarf. “I demand that she is escorted from the city limits.”

Alistair shook his head, sighing. “That’s not going to happen, Dorothea.”

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Dorothea looked him in the eyes, waiting to see if he would commit himself to this foolish course, choosing the dwarf openly over his Queen.

“No. I won’t.”

“Fine!” she snapped. The open denial of her rights stung, but didn’t surprise her. “See how you like the consequences.” She could hear the feet on the stairs now, and suddenly she was glad that it happened this way. There was no further question in her mind now—this was the only way to get her revenge, the throne for her son, and the regency for herself.

“What consequences?” Alistair stepped toward her, but the dwarf touched his arm—touched him!—and he looked down the hall. Coming toward them was Eamon, with the Grand Cleric and a troop of Templars.

Eamon stopped in front of Alistair. “I heard you had returned, my boy. I am sorry I cannot say ‘welcome home’.” He nodded at the Templars. “You will need to go with them.”

“Go where?” Alistair asked, but a small voice interrupted him.

“Daddy, are you sick?” Duncan stood there, looking earnestly up at his father. “Mother says you’re sick in the head.”

“She does, does she?” Alistair’s eyes flashed dangerously as he looked at Dorothea. “Mother is … wrong,” he said, controlling himself with obvious effort. 

It sickened Dorothea to see how trustingly her son watched his father. Didn’t Duncan know how callously he’d been tossed aside as soon as Alistair’s half-caste bastard got herself in a snit and ran away from home? “Come to Mother, Duncan,” she said. 

Duncan looked up at his father. “Daddy?” He glanced at the dwarf curiously. “Did that … lady make you go away when you didn’t want to?”

“No, Duncan,” Alistair said. “She didn’t make me do anything. She asked for my help—“

“Enough!” Dorothea shouted. “You will not fill that child’s ears with lies. Come _here_ , Duncan.” She grasped the boy’s arm and pulled him toward her. Alistair began to protest, but Eamon stopped him.

“It’s for the best, my boy,” he said. “The child will be better off with his mother, for now.”

Alistair glared at Dorothea, his eyes smoldering. “Why do I doubt that?” he said in his infuriating drawl. Then his eyes moved to Eamon. “What’s your stake in this, Eamon? I trusted you—with my kingdom, and my son—and I come back to this! What have you done?” He stepped closer to the old man. Eamon took a step backward, his eyes faltering before the fury in Alistair’s eyes, but before he could say anything, the Grand Cleric spoke, her crisp voice silencing all of them.

“The Maker demands that each man take a stand against those who would pervert magic toward their own ends,” she said. She gave Eamon an approving glance, and Dorothea a smile that almost passed for friendly. Then her eyes moved to the dwarf, where they held.

“I don’t see why you’re looking at me,” the dwarf said. “I’m no mage. I have no power to use magic.”

“You have a mage at your beck and call,” said the Grand Cleric. 

The dwarf’s eyes widened in outrage. “Anders would never be party to blood magic, something the Chantry knows perfectly well.”

“Do we?” The Grand Cleric stared down at the dwarf innocently. “I do not believe we can be sure of that. His Majesty must come with me, to have his mind cleansed of the harm magic has done him.” The Grand Cleric smiled with satisfaction. “The dwarf will be removed from the city.”

“I will not have this!” Alistair shouted. Then his eyes caught Duncan’s—the boy was terrified, looking from adult to adult. 

The Grand Cleric saw the direction of Alistair’s gaze. “It seems it would be in your best interest to come quietly, Your Majesty. Do not force us to make a scene in front of him.”

“Daddy!” Duncan cried. He reached out for Alistair imploringly. 

Alistair’s shoulder’s slumped. “Very well.” He knelt in front of Duncan. “Daddy’s going to go with the Grand Cleric for now, but I’ll be back very soon. You be a big, brave boy for me?”

Duncan nodded, his wide eyes filling with tears. 

“That’s my good lad,” Alistair said. He and the boy clung to each other for a moment. Then he stood up and looked at the dwarf. “Let’s go,” he said. 

The dwarf stepped forward to follow him, but the Grand Cleric shook her head decisively. “It is best that the two of you are separated. Until we see if there is any truth to the allegations of blood magic.” Her tone said her mind was already made up.

“Go ahead,” the dwarf told him. “I’ll find you.”

Alistair nodded at her, and the sappy look the two exchanged made Dorothea want to scream and kick someone. They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore! 

The Grand Cleric took Alistair by the arm, leading him down the hallway. The Templars and Eamon followed, leaving Dorothea to smile down at the dwarf. “Now,” she said, highly pleased with herself, “get out of my city.”

“Neither you nor the Grand Cleric has that power,” the dwarf said. “I’ll be at the Grey Warden compound if anyone’s looking for me.” Her shoulders were straight as she pushed past Dorothea, but her stride had none of its usual swagger.

Dorothea watched her go, then turned to her guards. “I believe I shall return to my chambers,” she said, yawning. “A little nap after my exertions might be nice.” A small sound brought her attention back to Duncan, who stood there white-faced, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Don’t cry,” Dorothea said impatiently. “It doesn’t suit the country’s next monarch.” She put her hand on his back, pushing him gently toward his room. “Go and get some rest. You may have a very big day tomorrow.”


	70. The Gambler

With her back straight and her head high, Thora walked through the palace, trying to decide where to go. Despite having told Dorothea that she was going to the Grey Warden compound, she had no intention of doing so. That was too well-known a location, and she didn’t intend to be that easy to find. She was deep in thought as she came into the grand entry hall and came face to face with Septimus Dirnley and Sister Honoria.

“Lose something?” Dirnley taunted. 

Thora lifted her eyebrows, but didn’t answer him.

“We saw the Grand Cleric leaving with the King,” Sister Honoria said coldly. “Once his mind is cleansed of your influence, you will not want to remain in Denerim, I suspect.”

“There isn’t now, nor has there ever been, anything wrong with Alistair’s mind. A fact many people have overlooked—to their cost,” Thora said evenly.

“He wasn’t smart enough to avoid producing a brat with you,” Dirnley said. Sister Honoria frowned at him, but he didn’t see it. “Once the King has regained his senses, he’ll see what a danger she is to the succession.”

Thora took a deep breath. This man was never going to cease to be a danger to her family, he’d just made that plain. It was clear to her what had to happen now. “Did I just hear you threaten an 8-year-old child?” she asked, taking a deliberate step closer to him.

“Of course not!” Dirnley said officiously. “I’m merely expressing a concern.” His eyes glinted at her. “If certain people get the wrong idea about the hazard she represents …” He shrugged, as if he regretted the possibility but couldn’t prevent it.

“Over my dead body.”

“Be careful how you say that. It could be arranged.”

“That threat has been made before,” Thora said. “Are you making it now?” She looked him challengingly in the eye. “You couldn’t lay a finger on me unless you snuck behind my back.”

Dirnley’s lips went white. “I would have no trouble beating you in a fair fight.”

Thora said nothing, but allowed her face to vividly express her doubts.

“Right now, then,” Dirnley said. “Let’s step outside.”

“Gladly.” Thora could barely restrain a smile as she followed Dirnley toward the training grounds. The scene with Dorothea had her longing to hit something, and Dirnley fit the bill perfectly. She wished devoutly that Alistair had married a warrior instead of a lady—at least then she could have challenged the woman to a duel and had it be a fair fight. She thought if for some reason his council ever wanted him to marry another human, she’d make sure it was a warrior. Maybe then the woman would understand Alistair.

A small crowd had gathered behind Thora and Dirnley when they reached the training grounds. Jones, Thora’s erstwhile guard, came up to her. “I have your dagger, Commander, should you wish it returned. Maric’s sword is in the hands of the Chantry, but my blade is at your service.” He bowed. “I would be honored to act as your second.”

Thora smiled at him. “Thank you, Jones. The honor is mine.” She looked over at Dirnley, who was studying a line of soldiers, trying to pick a second. “My blades were taken from me, and that is the way I will fight.”

“Bare-handed?” Jones looked skeptical.

“I’ve trained in bare-handed combat against better swordsmen than he,” Thora said. In truth, she wasn’t quite as confident as she seemed, but she couldn’t afford to let that show. If Dirnley was defeated by an unarmed dwarf woman, Hero of Ferelden or not, it sent a strong message.

“If all is ready?” Sister Honoria looked questioningly at both combatants.

“I am ready,” Dirnley called, smirking at Thora.

“And I am ready,” Thora said, taking her place. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins, and she looked forward to the first crunch of her gauntleted fist into Dirnley’s armor. Even the resulting pain would be satisfying.

“Where are your weapons?” Sister Honoria asked. 

“I will not bear them until the blade that is rightfully mine is returned to me by those who took it,” Thora said, and was pleased to hear muttering from the growing crowd. She took a deep breath, then decided to make the supreme gamble. “As the Maker guided me to the Temple of Andraste, may He guide my hands now.” She spoke loudly and clearly, so she could be heard by all, and was rewarded with gasps and murmurs. Some were clearly shocked and displeased that a dwarf would call on the Maker’s assistance, but others got the point Thora wanted: if she won this match, it would be widely regarded as a sign that the Maker was on her side, and by extension, Alistair’s. Now, she thought, she must not lose.

Dirnley rolled his eyes at her words, clearly not seeing the heightened stakes. But Sister Honoria did. She narrowed her eyes, studying Thora carefully. Thora turned to look at Jones. “Make sure it’s a fair fight,” she said, again pitching her voice loud and clear.

“Aye, Commander,” he said grimly.

“You may begin,” Sister Honoria said.

Dirnley rushed across the field, shield up and sword at the ready. He slashed at Thora, but she stepped aside easily, ducking the blade. Clearly he thought she was a pushover, she thought with amusement. A point in her favor. Another thing that gave her confidence in this situation was that sword and shield fighters rarely understood how to fight a smaller opponent effectively. They were used to fighting people their own size. The first thing she had taught Alistair, in the Korcari Wilds so long ago, after a battle with wolves, was how to use his shield against shorter creatures. Clearly no one had given Dirnley the same lesson.

As her sidestep sent Dirnley stumbling past her, she struck him in the side with a glancing blow. It wasn’t a devastating punch, but when he turned, she saw that he was angry, now, as well. Another point in her favor.

Dirnley fidgeted with his shield just slightly, ready to bash it into her face as soon as she swung. She feinted toward his shield arm, and he moved the shield to counter her. Thora leapt into the air, one foot flying forward and kicking him in the stomach while his shield was still out of place. Dirnley was knocked back by the blow. Thora landed roughly—that move needed more practice—and in the moment it took her to regain her balance, Dirnley was moving forward, blade swinging. The blow would have caught a human in the side, but merely glanced off the top of Thora’s shoulder. While he was off-guard, she stepped closer. Clasping both hands, she slammed Dirnley in the side with Oghren’s hammer strike.

Dirnley was spun around by the force of the blow. Breathing hard, he slashed wildly in her direction, but Thora danced back, out of range.

They squared off, each looking for an opening. Dirnley swung his sword, causing Thora to sidestep to her right, but then he caught her with the shield. The brunt of the blow was aimed too high, but the bottom of the shield bashed her in the nose. Blood poured out of it, and Thora glared at him, trying to blink away the tears of pain streaming from her eyes as she backed away, giving herself some space to recover.

“First blood,” Dirnley crowed triumphantly.

“Last is the only blood that matters,” Thora muttered thickly. As Dirnley glanced around the crowd, waiting to be cheered, Thora’s heavy boot caught him in the kneecap, and his leg buckled beneath him. He went down on the other knee, injured leg thrust out to the side, and Thora grinned at him, her face grotesque with blood.

Dirnley’s face was a mask of pain. “H-healing,” he called out piteously to Sister Honoria, who shook her head.

“Not allowed,” Thora said. “Besides, don’t you want to face your Maker with your mind clear of all magical influence?” 

He snarled at her, trying to set his sword and shield, but the pain and the change in body position had his mind muddled, unable to react properly. Thora balled her fist. She felt a momentary qualm at what she was about to do, but all the obstacles this man’s sneakiness and treachery had caused her flooded her mind. She put all her considerable power behind a single punch. The jarring pain in her arm was almost pleasurable as she heard the sick crunch of Dirnley’s nose being driven into his brain. He fell forward, blood streaming from his face to cover the ground, and Thora stepped back, allowing Sister Honoria to examine him.

The Sister, clearly not interested in getting her robes blood-stained, motioned to one of the soldiers to go look. The soldier knelt, his fingers on Dirnley’s neck, then looked up at Sister Honoria. “He’s dead. She’s killed him.”

Thora swallowed a mouthful of blood and bile, clearing her throat. “That man was a traitor to his King and his country. By the Maker’s mercy, he has received his punishment.” Jones’s arm was suddenly before her, and she clung to it. The adrenaline was leeching out of her, and she felt dizzy from the blow to the head and subsequent blood loss. She allowed Jones to escort her from the field. 

To her great relief, once the exhilarated hum of combat had receded, she could feel the presence of Grey Wardens, and she fell gratefully into Oghren’s outstretched arms, rejoicing to find them all waiting for her, having caught the tail end of the fight.

“Funny,” she said to Oghren, “even with a broken nose, you still smell like cheap month-old ale.”


	71. The Hard-Knock Life

Most of the crowd surrounding the training ground, where Dirnley’s body still lay, seemed awed or pleased, or both, by the outcome of the fight. But Sister Honoria and several of the soldiers were clearly neither. The angry looks being shot in Thora’s direction by the small group surrounding Sister Honoria were getting darker with time.

Jones came over, bowing to Thora. “Commander, I must respectfully suggest you find somewhere else to recuperate. Dirnley wasn’t well liked, but his death will anger a few of the men.”

“Good idea,” Teagan said, taking over. “Let’s head for my estate—we should be safe there.”

“We should hurry,” Thora said, impatiently pushing at Anders’s hands, which hovered over her nose.

“I’m going to look at this nose,” he said sternly. “And you’re going to stand still while I do it.” He traced the line of the nose with both hands, clucking to himself. “Next time, could you wear a helm? I hate fixing noses.”

“Quit yer whinin’,” Oghren said. “No time to lose. Fix it or leave it.”

“Best I can do for now,” Anders muttered, and Thora felt the blissful cool healing wash over her face. The swelling eased, and she could breathe through her nose again. The dizziness and the pounding ache in her head remained, however, and she was grateful for the supporting presence of her friends and comrades. Anawyn slid her arm around her mother’s waist, allowing Thora to lean on her, and Leliana stayed close by Thora’s other side. Teagan and Ser Perth walked at the head of the group; Anders and Oghren just behind Thora; and Jens and Sigrun brought up the rear.

“Are you all right?” Thora asked Anawyn quietly as the group of them moved through the crowd and out into the street. While Thora didn’t regret the fight or its outcome, it was painful to think of her little girl watching her mother kill someone with her bare hands. 

Anawyn nodded. Anders hadn’t let her see much of the fight, but she’d seen enough. She’d always seen her mother as a formidable commander, but she’d never seen her quite like that—so grim and determined, but also confident and powerful. She could understand much better now how her mother had saved the world. “You were very brave,” she said quietly, and Thora’s heart eased a little. After a moment, Anawyn said, “Is Father all right?”

“I hope so,” Thora said. “He was taken away by the Grand Cleric and Chancellor Eamon.”

“Eamon? Eamon is part of this?” Teagan asked. He looked stricken.

Thora nodded. “I wish I understood it,” she said. “Eamon knew why we left, why we had to go. He was the one who explained about—“ She stopped herself, remembering that no one else here knew about Alistair’s true parentage. Including Anawyn, who had no idea her grandmother had been an elf, and a mage, and a Grey Warden. “I don’t know why Eamon would have turned against Alistair,” she said helplessly.

Teagan’s eyes hardened. “I believe I have an idea,” he said, but he left it at that. 

Once they’d reached his estate, Teagan gave the servants instructions to care for the group, then turned to Thora. “I must return to the palace,” he said. “Will you be all right here?”

She nodded. “You think there’s something at the palace that can help?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he answered. “I’ll meet you first thing in the morning—after you get a good night’s sleep,” he said sternly.

“Thank you, Teagan.” Thora turned to the mage, who was laying out poultices and supplies. “All right, Anders. Do your worst.”

“My best, I think you mean,” he said, grinning at her.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t going to enjoy this.”

“I’m a healer,” he protested, “not a sadist.” But his widened smile gave him away.

“What is it that the Queen, the Chancellor, and the Chantry want, exactly?” Sigrun asked.

Thora tried to speak, but Anders frowned at her, and she settled for shrugging her shoulders.

“My guess is that they think if they can discredit the King, the young prince can be put on the throne, with his mother or Arl—Chancellor Eamon as regent,” Perth put in. He shook his head sadly. “I thought the Chantry was above such goings-on.”

Leliana looked at him, her eyes troubled, but thought better of what she was going to say.

“It seems—“ Thora began, but subsided when Anders cleared his throat sternly.

“Pipe down,” Anders said. “Unless you want your nose to look this way permanently?” He waited. When she didn’t respond he said smugly, “I didn’t think so,” and resumed his attempt to realign the cartilage.

“I think what the Commander’s tryin’ to say,” Oghren put in, “is who cares why they’re doin’ it? Important part’s to get the nug-humper back.”

“We can hardly charge into the Chantry and just demand him,” Perth said.

“We could sneak in,” Sigrun suggested.

“I don’t sneak,” Oghren growled, and Jens nodded in agreement. 

“They can’t do anything without calling a Landsmeet,” Leliana observed. 

“That would take a lot of time,” Anders said. He placed his fingertips on Thora’s forehead, and there was a momentary blue glow. “That should help the headache and dizziness,” he told her.

“Are you done now?” she asked.

“You’re awfully cranky for a woman with a repaired nose,” he said.

“Sorry. And thanks.” Thora squeezed his hand. “I’m just anxious.”

“You just removed one of your enemies—isn’t that victory enough for one day?”

“The least dangerous one, though. Well, the least powerful,” Thora amended. “He was dangerous enough. But the task still remains to be completed. And we have to do something about Duncan. That poor little boy had to watch his father being taken away—it was polite enough, but still, Duncan was terribly frightened.”

“How long would it take to call a Landsmeet?” Sigrun asked.

“They won’t have to wait for one, not with the Grand Cleric involved. She could claim Alistair needs his mind cleansed, put someone in as regent, and it’s all over but the shouting. By the time the Landsmeet could assemble, the country would believe what the Chantry had to say.” 

“Not if the country believes the Maker’s on your side.” They all turned to look at Perth, who was standing by the window. He reddened slightly under their scrutiny.

“I thought you believed the Grand Cleric could do no wrong,” Leliana said with more than a trace of bitterness.

“I used to,” he said. His eyes met Leliana’s, and it was clear everyone else in the room no longer existed for him. “But … I’ve been too close to everything that has happened. I saw the Ashes of Andraste heal Arl Eamon, whether the Chantry denies they existed or not. I know King Alistair, and the Commander, and even Anders—I don’t know why the Grand Cleric would claim that there’s something wrong with any of them, but … it isn’t good for the country, the way this is happening.”

Leliana’s eyes lit up, and she took a step toward him before remembering their audience. 

“Perth is right,” Thora said. “It’s why I chose to face Dirnley unarmed. In front of Sister Honoria and everyone, I asked for the Maker to guide my hands.”

“Good thing you won,” Sigrun said.

“I had no choice.” Thora sighed, removing her gauntlets and trying to flex her stiffening fingers. 

Anders exclaimed at the sight of her hands. “Why didn’t you mention those?” 

“Forgot,” Thora said. Anders took her hands in his, healing flowing into her abused fingers. Thora yawned widely, exhaustion starting to set in as the events of the day, and the lack of sleep in recent nights, took their toll on her. “This still doesn’t help us figure out how to get to Alistair.” She hadn’t been too worried about him—he could take care of himself—but what if the Chantry was actually able to ‘cleanse’ his mind? If she lost his love just when she’d found it again? To her horror, she found her eyes filling with tears. 

Anawyn threw her arms around her mother. “We’ll find him, I promise,” she said. The two of them clung together for a moment. Then Anders said, “I think our patient here has been through enough for one night. Time for her to rest.” When no one moved, he looked around sternly. “Now, please.”

Thora was too tired to protest his high-handedness. She wasn’t going to be any good at planning something until she’d had some sleep, anyway. If only she could see Alistair, be sure he was all right, she thought, bending toward her pack to take out some things. That’s when she saw the special pack of Dagna’s potions. If she took one, maybe she could find Alistair in the Fade, she thought. Her fingers closed around the blue vial. It was worth a try.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Teagan arrived at the palace, making his way through the corridors to the familiar suite. Without bothering to knock, he threw open the door. “Hello, Isolde,” he said, closing the door firmly behind him. 

“Teagan!” she said, her voice caressing the syllables. “Such a pleasure to see you here.”

“What have you done?” he asked, striding toward her. “Because I know it was you.”

Her wide brown eyes blinked innocently at him. “I do not know what you are talking about, brother-in-law.”

“Oh, I think you do. No one wants power more than you, Isolde … unless it’s Dorothea. The two of you are a perfect match, aren’t you?” Isolde flushed slightly, but her eyes flashed. “That’s what I thought. So here you are, whispering your sibilant little promises into Eamon’s ears, and there she is, pouring out all her woes to the sympathetic Grand Cleric, and suddenly we have a palace coup.”

“Teagan, she means nothing to me, you must know that,” Isolde said. She danced forward, her pink tongue darting out to lick her lips. “I could share that power with you, Teagan. I could see to it that Dorothea makes you regent. She will listen to what I say.” Isolde clutched his arm, her eyes glittering.

“Dorothea won’t make anyone but herself regent, and you well know it, no matter how … close you two have become,” Teagan said impatiently, shaking her hand off him. He had always detested the way Isolde mispronounced his name.

“Perhaps it will not be her decision,” Isolde whispered. “If we play Dorothea and Eamon off against each other, the Grand Cleric cannot choose either of them. You would be the next best choice. Even the dwarf trusts you.” She stepped even closer, and Teagan could feel her breasts, still firm despite her age, brush against his arm. “I can make that happen for you, Teagan. Just say the word.”

Teagan put out a hand, tracing her shoulder, and Isolde purred like a cat, arching into his touch, a smile of triumph lighting her features. Then her mouth opened in an “o” of shock and pain as Teagan tightened his hand on her shoulder. He leaned forward. “Isolde, the only thing you’ll ever make me do is vomit,” he said. “I wish I’d made Thora let you sacrifice yourself in that blood ritual during the Blight. It would have been better for all of us.”

A tear welled up in her eye, rolling slowly down her cheek. “I cannot believe you can speak to me so, Teagan. You know how I have always cared for you.”

“You make a mockery of the word,” Teagan said. “The game is over, Isolde. You can tell your girlfriend that, if you like.” He stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.


	72. Dream Lover

Leliana sat before the glass, brushing her hair. Or, rather, staring off into space with the brush in her hand. Much as she knew she should be focusing on the task, trying to help her friends in their hour of need, memories of the look on Perth’s face kept interposing themselves in front of her. Had she imagined his eyes, so soft and loving? The last time she’d been in Redcliffe, angry and bitter with the Chantry that refused to believe her claims about the Temple of Andraste, she and Perth had argued furiously about the Grand Cleric and the Chantry’s interpretation of Andraste and the Maker. He had been most clear that he was done with Leliana’s heretical thinking. Could it be that he had come to see things differently? 

She stood up, putting the brush back in her pack. It was a ridiculous notion, she thought. In the decade since they’d met the night of the siege of Redcliffe, Perth’s stance on the Chantry had never changed. Why should she expect it to now? Leliana cinched the pack closed viciously, angry with herself for getting her hopes up.

And then came the soft knock on the door. She went to it, leaning her head against it, her heart pounding. “Yes?” she said softly.

“Leliana, I know you’re still awake. Can I … can I come in, please?” His voice, so gentle.

She fumbled with the lock, her usually sure fingers slow and clumsy, and opened the door. He smiled at her, his eyes lighting up. “Perth,” she said. 

He came in, and she shut the door behind him, hardly daring to breathe.

“I’ve … been thinking,” he began.

“I could tell. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak that way before.”

“It’s … The Chantry’s telling lies,” he said, shaking his head. “I know the King and the Commander. If the Chantry says there’s something … evil there, then the Chantry lies. They saved us all, including the Grand Cleric and all the Revered Mothers and everyone! And now the Chantry turns against them! I don’t understand that. And if they could lie—or even be wrong—about that, maybe they’re wrong about the Maker, too. Maybe he is all around us, in the beauty of his world.” Perth came toward her, reaching out to take her hand. “When I look at you, I wonder how anyone could believe anything else.”

“Perth,” Leliana whispered. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure that I’ve missed you, and that I want to be with you. And that nothing I’ve ever gotten from the Chantry’s beliefs is worth the loneliness I’ve been through thinking I drove you away.” He leaned forward, kissing her. Leliana whimpered, leaning into the kiss, her eyes fluttering closed. When the kiss broke, Perth leaned his forehead against Leliana’s. “May I stay?”

“Tonight, or …?”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Too overcome to speak, Leliana nodded. Slowly, Perth led her toward the bed and blew out the candle.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thora waited while everyone left. Sigrun was sharing a room with Anawyn tonight so Thora could rest after the ordeals of the day. “Mother, are you sure you’ll be all right alone?” Anawyn asked anxiously. 

“I’m going straight to sleep, little one. I’ll be fine.”

“No one will harm your mother tonight,” Jens said, putting a reassuring hand on Anawyn’s shoulder. “I promise.”

“Jens, you know that’s not necessary,” Thora said, but Jens merely looked at her. “Thank you.”

She watched as Sigrun and Anawyn went down the hall to their room and closed the door. Leliana was already in bed; Teagan hadn’t come back yet. Oghren grunted at her. “Me and sparkle-fingers an’ the man-mountain here,” he jerked a thumb toward Jens, “will take watch in turns. You’re not to try and help, ya hear?”

“Anyone would think you were the Commander,” she muttered. Oghren’s guffaw was still echoing in the hallway when she shut the door. She put the blue vial from Dagna on her night table as she got ready for bed. Her fingers were trembling as she reached for it. Would it work? If it worked, would she be able to locate Alistair in the unfamiliar surroundings of the Fade? After climbing into bed, Thora removed the cork, inhaling the cool, tangy aroma that came from the vial before tilting it up and downing it in a single draught.

It burned going down, but she was disappointed to find that once the burning had subsided there was no other sensation. Sighing in frustration, she lay back, pulling the covers up to her chin. After such a long day, it was so nice just to be in bed. She blinked once, then twice, and was floating away into the darkness of sleep when suddenly she saw a blue door open in the blackness before her. Her natural drift would take her past it, and somewhere in a not-quite-asleep part of her brain she remembered Dagna telling her it would take some effort to go through the first few times. She reached for the door, only to find herself climbing up through the soft layers of sleep away from it, toward wakefulness. Deliberately she relaxed, letting her mind wander until she felt sleep surrounding her again and the blue door appeared. This time, she sighed in her almost-sleep, drifting toward the door, letting the waves of drowsiness waft her closer and closer to it, until she was there, and could simply step through.

Thora looked around her with wonder at the misty shadows of the Fade. She could tell that there were other presences here, but there was no sensation in her blood to guide her—did that mean that Alistair wasn’t in the Fade, that none of her fellow Grey Wardens were here, or that in the Fade she couldn’t sense them? “Well, that’s not going to make this any easier,” she muttered to herself. Slowly she moved forward, putting each foot down carefully. It was odd to be here of her own free will—she’d always associated being in the Fade with being trapped. As she walked, she could see glimpses of rooms and fields and city streets—other people’s dreams? Where would Alistair dream of being? Maybe that was the way to find him. She thought about that for a minute, uncertainty filling her. Then it came in a single word: camp. 

As soon as she thought the word, it was there—the campfire crackling in front of her, the tent set up near enough to get some of the warmth and light from the fire, the other tents just a little way apart. And there he was, kneeling in front of the fire. Thora couldn’t repress the grin that spread across her face. Totally ridiculous to be so happy to see him—it had only been a few hours apart, she thought. Moving closer, she said quietly, “Fancy meeting you here.”

At her words, Alistair spun around, nearly falling over in his surprise.

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Thora said. “In the Fade, I can actually sneak up on you.” Her smile widened as she came closer, but met no answering smile on his face.

Alistair stood up, folding his arms and looking stern. “This isn’t even creative,” he said. “Everyone knows dwarves can’t come to the Fade on their own. You’ll have to try something better,” he shouted upward.

“Alistair?” Thora frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you’ve done a good job with it. The voice is right, the hair, the … body.” He swallowed, his eyes drawn to her breasts under the thin nightgown in spite of himself. “But I’m not falling for it.”

“It’s me,” she said. “Who else would it be?”

“You can go back and tell the Grand Cleric that I do not need my mind cleansed, and if she keeps this up, Ferelden’s going to be looking for a new spiritual leader.” He frowned at her.

“Ohhhh,” Thora said, as it dawned on her. “No, Alistair, it’s me. I got this potion from Dagna that allows dwarves to come to the Fade. It’s really me,” she said again, urgently.

He blinked at her. “That … sounds remarkably plausible.”

“It’s true. She gave them to me before we left the Tower. This is my first time. It’s a bit strange,” she said, looking around her.

“How did you find me?”

“I know you.” Thora stepped closer to him, relieved when he didn’t back away. “Alistair,” she whispered, and a shiver ran through him.

“I love the way you say my name,” he said. His eyes traveled over her body, heating her blood. “It does look like you.” Hesitantly, one hand reached out to touch her hair. “It feels like you.” He bent down, filling his senses with her coppery, flowery scent. “It smells like you.” Taking her in his arms, he kissed her long and slow, the sweet fire spreading through him. In a rough whisper, he said, “It tastes like you.”

“It _is_ me, you great idiot,” she said. “Kiss me again.” She pulled his head down to hers again, her tongue finding his. 

At last, he lifted his head, looking down at her, his eyes dark and fiery. “I admit I can’t imagine what the Grand Cleric would get out of this.”

“I think a night with you is probably just what the Grand Cleric needs,” Thora said, wriggling closer to his heat. “But I’m not sharing.” She smiled at him, the special smile that was only for him, and happiness took flight inside him. 

Hugging her close, he said, “It really is you. I can’t believe you’re here—I’ve fantasized about this for years. When I get everything back in order, I’m making Dagna a Teyrna.”  
“Speaking of getting things in order, we have things to talk about,” Thora said, but as his lips moved slowly down her throat in a series of wet kisses, she couldn’t for the life of her remember what they were.

Alistair sank down on his knees in front of her, and in a single motion, ripped the nightgown down the middle from neck to hem. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he murmured, taking a nipple into his mouth. Thora’s head fell back, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, holding on to him for dear life as his mouth moved from one throbbing tip to the other, and then down over her stomach. Gently he laid her back on the bedroll, lifting one leg and placing it over his shoulder before his mouth found the pulsing core of her, his lips and tongue and teeth exploring every fold as Thora whimpered and writhed, the pleasure overpowering. She cried out, her back arching, as his tongue slowly circled her most sensitive spot, never quite touching.

And then he moved up, his length finding her center easily. She moaned, wrapping her leg around his hip to hold him to her. Their eyes met in wonder—outside the Fade, this position was miserably uncomfortable, but here it was delicious, the difference in their sizes no longer important. Alistair moved slowly, savoring each moment, his hands caressing her face and hair, their lips meeting in small kisses. Gradually they climbed the peak together, each thrust increasing the pleasure until it was too much and they fell over the edge, calling out each other’s name.

They lay together in the glow of the fire afterward. “Did I say I was going to make Dagna a Teyrna?” Alistair said at last. “Because I really think I’ll just cede the kingdom to her. This is brilliant!”

“Agreed,” Thora said, stretching languidly against him. 

There was another silence. Then Alistair asked, “Did I miss anything today?”

Thora had to think about that—the day’s events seemed a long way away. “Oh. Oh! Yes, you did. Um …” She sat up. “I killed Dirnley.”

“You what?” Alistair was sitting up, too. “How? Why?”

“I was so … frustrated after that scene with Dorothea, and then I saw Dirnley and he was gloating and making these veiled threats about Anawyn and the danger she posed to the succession … and I challenged him to a duel.”

“You dueled Dirnley? In what way was that a fair fight?” He stared at her.

“I was unarmed.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that’s as fair as you could have made it.” Alistair looked her over anxiously. “Are you all right? I mean, you seem fine here, but in the real world?”

“Yes. He broke my nose, but Anders fixed it. Made quite a production of it, too.” She leaned against Alistair, who put his arm around her. “I said out loud, in front of Sister Honoria and everyone who was watching, that the Maker would guide my hand, since my blades had been taken from me.”

“Good thing you won, then.” He grinned.

“Right?”

“That should help, though.”

“Are you all right? They haven’t tried to … cleanse you?”

“Do I look cleansed?” He waggled his eyebrows naughtily at her.

“I don’t know,” Thora said, “maybe I need to do a more thorough inspection.” She climbed into his lap. “Seriously, though …”

“I don’t think they know what to do with me,” Alistair said. “Tomorrow we need to end this farce. I’ve had about all I can take.”

“Agreed. Tomorrow,” Thora said, kissing his neck. Alistair leaned his head back, moaning.

They were kissing, oblivious to everything but each other, when a small voice broke the spell with a loud, “EWWWW!” They both turned to see Anawyn standing there, her hands over her face. “Can you two please tell me when you’re dressed again?”


	73. Under Pressure

Thora awoke the next morning feeling something less than fully rested. She had spent the night talking with Alistair and Anawyn in the Fade, which had been lovely, but not relaxing. Especially since they were no closer to figuring out a way to pacify the Grand Cleric and get Dorothea out of their collective hair.

Yawning, she collected her armor and headed out of the room, searching for breakfast. Hot tea and food would have to take the place of a good night’s sleep. When she entered the dining room, she found Perth and Leliana already there, sitting next to one another and looking self-consciously blissful. Oghren was sitting across from them, trying to see how many shades of red he could make Perth turn with his ribald teasing. He looked up when Thora came into the room.

“Commander, this one’s no fun. We need to get the pike-twirler back—he turns lots more colors.”

Thora shook her head at him, sitting down and reaching for the teapot. 

Anders reached over, grabbing her chin firmly and surveying her nose. “Huh. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Looks fine,” he said. “You should see the other guy, huh?” He grinned at her.

Thora shuddered, seeing Dirnley’s face in that final moment. It had been necessary, she told herself. But if so, why did she still feel as if she’d done something wrong? “Where’s Anawyn?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from her increasingly discordant thoughts.

“She’s in the kitchen—been helping the cook,” Sigrun said. “Don’t worry, Jens is with her.”

“Good.” Thora was glad her daughter was getting a break, however brief, from all of this mess. Taking a deep swallow of the hot tea, she looked at Teagan, sitting quietly at the head of the table. “Any news from your visit to the palace yesterday, Teagan?”

He nodded. “I’ve been waiting for you. My suspicions were confirmed—I’ve discovered why Eamon allowed himself to become part of this farce.” He met Thora’s eyes. “Isolde.”

“Of course,” Thora groaned. “I should have known. What does she want?”

“What else? Power. Through Dorothea, or Eamon, or anyone else who might offer it to her.”

“How does that help us?” Leliana asked.

“It helps because Eamon won’t like being a cat’s paw. It also helps,” Teagan said, “because it appears Dorothea and Isolde have been sleeping together.”

Thora cast a quick glance at Oghren. Branka’s betrayal of him with her lover Hespith had simmered below the surface in him for a long time … but he kept his eyes on the bread he was slathering with butter. No comments, bitter or lewd. Thora thought of Felsi waiting at the Vigil with their children. Her heart lifted, and she couldn’t wait to return her Second to his family.

Teagan looked around the table, obviously having expected more of a reaction. “Does it occur to any of you that this means Dorothea is guilty of adultery?”

“How would you prove it, though?” Perth asked. “It would be your word against theirs. I assume they’d hardly admit that in public.”

Thora studied her plate. She and Alistair could hardly throw stones over that particular issue. Just because Dorothea hadn’t stayed faithful didn’t mean they could use that against her, not without looking like the biggest hypocrites in Thedas. She toyed with her food listlessly.

“At the very least,” Teagan said, his brow still furrowed at their lack of reaction, “I can use this with Eamon. He will not like being betrayed. Or being duped.”

“You sure about that?” Anders grinned. “Some men would be thrilled to know their wife was messing around with another wo—“ He caught himself, glancing at Oghren, who grunted.

“Messin’ around is messin’ around, no matter what’s dippin’ into the honey,” Oghren said.

“Exactly,” said Teagan. “I’m sure Eamon will see it that way, as well.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Thora said impatiently, standing up. “Let’s go slap some sense into your brother.” They all looked at her, and she could see the specter of Dirnley hanging over the table. “I meant that metaphorically. I promise, I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Maybe you’d better let me do the talking,” Teagan said.

“As long as you’re persuasive.”

“Persuasive,” Teagan said, grinning down at her, “is my middle name.”

And so they went. Teagan and Thora, with Oghren and Anders accompanying them. Sigrun and Jens stayed back at Teagan’s estate to protect Anawyn, and Leliana and Perth decided to mingle a bit in the market district to see what kind of rumors they could hear. Thora privately wondered if they’d be able to notice anything but each other, but she couldn’t begrudge her friend. This happiness had been a long time coming.

They reached Eamon’s door without too much annoyance, although Thora had been the subject of a number of stares and whispers as they made their way through the palace. Teagan knocked firmly on his brother’s door. Eamon opened it, looking intensely irritated. “What?! Oh. Teagan,” he said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“Eamon. May we come in?”

“If you must.”

“This isn’t the kind of reception I’m used to, Eamon,” Teagan said.

“Isolde told me what you did,” Eamon said. The two of them faced off, glaring at each other. 

“And what exactly does Isolde claim that I did?” Teagan asked.

“Bullied her, grabbed her arm, shouted at her.” Eamon shook his head. “She’s just a defenseless woman, Teagan.”

Thora snorted in spite of herself, earning her own glare from Eamon.

“Eamon, none of that happened. How long are you going to be her pawn?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Eamon drew himself up, blinking at them with an injured air.

“She as good as told me that she’s sleeping with the Queen,” Teagan said.

“That is not possible,” Eamon said angrily. “I would know if something like that was going on under my nose.”

“Oh, Eamon.” Teagan sighed.

“It’s just like Perth said, Teagan. Our word against hers,” Thora said. “So the point really is … Eamon, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to do what’s right for Ferelden.”

“By putting a five-year-old on the throne, with someone as inexperienced as Dorothea for Regent? Or are you and Isolde planning that you’ll become Regent?” Eamon’s self-conscious look said she’d struck the right note, and Thora shook her head. “So you and Isolde are playing Dorothea, who’s trying to play the Grand Cleric, who is playing all of you, figuring either you or Dorothea gives her more power than Alistair, so it doesn’t matter who comes out on top.”

Eamon’s mouth opened, then closed. “It’s not— I mean, we— That’s not what I intended.”

“What did you intend?” Thora asked. “When you turned your back on Alistair—again!—what did you expect was going to happen?”

“It’s over, brother,” Teagan said. “Whatever you think justifies this betrayal, it stops now.”

“What exactly do the two of you intend to do to stop it?” Eamon asked.

“What happened here? To you?” Thora asked. “When we left it was ‘I’m sorry I didn’t do better by you, Alistair,’ and now it’s ‘hey, let’s sweep in and take control of the throne from you.’ You owe him, Eamon!”

“That is hardly any concern of yours,” Eamon said stiffly. “Wasn’t sabotaging his marriage enough for you?”

“I did not sabotage his marriage!”

“Really. You go away to let him have a fresh start, then not two months later you call him back to tell him you’re pregnant. He was going to give his life here a chance before you did that! Couldn’t you have hidden it from him?”

“It was that kind of thinking that got him in this situation to begin with,” Thora protested. “All this secret keeping, and where did it get you? You nearly lost him to the Blight! And where were you all the time he was miserable alone here with that harpy?”

“He needed to learn how to handle Dorothea on his own. But he couldn’t do that running off to Amaranthine all the time to be with your daughter.”

“Don’t you dare blame my daughter for your shortcomings!”

“I’m not. I’m blaming her for yours.”

Thora was stunned into silence. She’d known Eamon disapproved, but she’d never imagined he was this venomous toward her.  
Eamon took advantage of her silence to press his point. “He had the chance to be the King that Maric never was!” he shouted. “To make Ferelden something other than a backwater country of rubes and barbarians, a country that could stand up to Orlais!”

“Eamon.” Teagan’s voice cut through the fervor of his brother’s imaginings.

“He’s done a good job, Eamon! He’s been good for his people—been good to his people. Isn’t that enough?” Thora said desperately.

“Couldn’t he have done better, if he’d been allowed to put himself fully into the position?” Eamon’s voice was quiet, but it cut sharply into Thora.

She didn’t have the energy to argue this any longer. Maybe Eamon was right, maybe she had set all this in motion years ago, maybe this was her fault from the start. “We have to stop this, Eamon. Whatever started it, whoever’s fault it is, we have to stop this. Threatening Alistair’s authority, leaving an opening for the Chantry to take power—that’s not good for the country. And what do you think the Grand Cleric’s going to do with Alistair so that Duncan can take the throne? I’m from Orzammar—I know what people do to depose and discredit kings. We both owe Alistair too much to leave him at the Chantry’s mercy. Can we at least agree on that?”

Eamon took a deep breath. “We can.”

“Then let’s get him out of there before the Grand Cleric does something to him that we’ll all regret.”


	74. A Matter of Trust

Alistair sighed in irritation, running a hand through his hair. He turned to look at the Grand Cleric. “Your Eminence, this charade is an insult to your intelligence. You and I both know that I’m not under some blood mage’s thrall, and that I don’t need my mind cleansed. It’s all just a fantasy cooked up by my bitter and jealous wife.” He glared at Dorothea, who crossed her arms and looked smugly back at him. “So why are you playing along? Let’s cut to the chase and have you tell me what it is that she’s promised you.”

The Grand Cleric studied the King for a long moment. “Your ‘bitter and jealous wife,’ as it pleases you to call her, is a devout daughter of the Chantry. As Regent, she has pledged to triple Ferelden’s tithes to the Chantry, and to seat Revered Mothers in the vacant Arlings.”

Aghast, Alistair looked at Dorothea. “You can’t do that! It’s practically ceding the kingdom to Chantry authority!”

“Who better to run such a devout nation?” The Grand Cleric smiled like a sleek cat. “And you, Alistair? What have you to offer?”

“I killed Flemeth,” he offered.

“I heard a rumor to that effect,” the Grand Cleric said, looking bored. “But really, without a body, where’s the proof? And, more to the point, what’s a few Templars lost in the Wilds here and there? Money and power, Alistair. Those are the keys.”

“Is that the way you want to play it?” The King’s voice grew soft and silky. “Because we could always talk about the Chantry’s lyrium trade.”

“What about it?” The Grand Cleric eyed him warily.

“Well, you see,” Alistair said, “I happen to be good friends with the King of Orzammar. Gorim Saelac. Quite a monarch—I assume you’ve heard of him?”

The Grand Cleric had certainly heard of Gorim. Since all lyrium came from the Deep Roads, Orzammar was the Chantry’s only source for all the lyrium it needed. A new respect crept into her eyes. “And what is the purpose of bringing King Gorim into the conversation?”

“Gorim is very interested in expanding the lyrium trade. He feels that selling lyrium outside the Chantry’s restrictions would be far more profitable for Orzammar—and you know how dwarves like their profits.” He winked at the Grand Cleric. “Now, so far I’ve managed to talk him out of it, but if I weren’t on the throne …” 

The Grand Cleric looked at him speculatively. 

“Think of all those apostates—not to mention the Templars—lined up to buy lyrium, and nothing the Chantry could do about it,” Alistair said.

At that moment, the doors of the Grand Cleric’s office burst open, and Thora, Teagan, and Eamon charged in, with Isolde scurrying after them. Anders and Oghren took up positions just inside the door.

“What in the Maker’s name is she doing here?” Dorothea screeched, getting hastily to her feet.

“Let him go at once!” Thora demanded imperiously of the Grand Cleric, ignoring Dorothea.

“Or what?” The Grand Cleric looked amused. “You’ll kill me the way you killed Dirnley? Or will the ‘Maker guide your hands’?”

Thora flinched, and the Grand Cleric came very close to an actual smile.

Alistair was shocked at how exhausted and drawn his love looked. She hadn’t looked that way in the Fade, he thought. But of course, she wouldn’t have. It was the Fade, after all. He was tired, himself, from the sleepless nights, but he was far more used to spending time in the Fade. Clearly it had drained something out of her. He stepped closer, wanting to offer her some of his strength, but she shook her head wordlessly.

“I believe,” Eamon said, clearing his throat officiously, “we need to rethink the situation.”

“We’re not ‘rethinking’ anything, you coward!” Dorothea said. She looked at Isolde. “You promised me he wouldn’t cause any problems.”

Isolde’s eyes shifted from her husband to the Queen and back. And then she took a large step and stood at Dorothea’s side.

“Isolde!” Eamon said softly, his voice anguished.

“I am tired of waiting for you to make a move, Eamon.” Isolde shrugged eloquently.

“You tramp!” Teagan said.

She gave him a pitying look. “Poor Teagan, always pushed around, left behind, and on the wrong side.”

“None of this is getting us anywhere,” Thora said. “Dorothea, what do you want?”

“Your head on a pike,” Dorothea said. “Barring that, I want the throne on behalf of my son.”

Alistair stepped forward, starting to speak, but Thora got there first. “You think anyone would let you have the throne?”

“I don’t think they’ll have a choice.” Dorothea looked down at the dwarf. “The poor King is unstable. He may have been tainted by blood magic. We can’t have him around the Crown Prince—who knows what might happen.” She gazed innocently at Thora.

“You can’t take my son away from me,” Alistair asserted. There was a quiet confidence in his tone that caused Isolde to give him a sharp, calculating look, but no one else seemed to notice anything unusual. 

“I have every right to protect my son,” Dorothea said. “And I have the Chantry’s support—can you really defy the entire Chantry?”

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest. “You will absolutely not get away with this.”

“Look around you. I already have.”

Thora looked up at them all. Suddenly being a dwarf in the humans’ world made her feel suffocated. She had never felt this way before, but all these people around her felt like the walls were closing in. There seemed no way out of this morass. Thora gulped air as though she were drowning. And then it occurred to her—all this was happening because of her. Because of Dorothea’s jealousy of her; because she had dragged Alistair away from Denerim to chase Anawyn; because she hadn’t been able to simply let him go. As many times as she had denied that he was hers—who was she kidding? If she’d been strong enough to walk away in the beginning, they’d never be in this situation. An idea began to assert itself, an idea that would make them both unhappy, but would keep Alistair from losing his son, or his throne.

“My boy, I believe it is time to accept that you might not be the right person for this task,” Eamon said. He looked hopefully at Isolde, who rewarded him with a promising smile.

Alistair stared at his Chancellor and sometime foster father in consternation. This change of heart was almost a decade too late, as far as he was concerned, but the fact that Eamon could make such a statement at all had Alistair temporarily speechless.

“You see, Alistair,” Dorothea said, “you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. You’ve spent all these years turning your back on your throne and your people in favor of your little dwarf and her bastard, and now it’s going to cost you.”

“That is absolutely ridiculous!” Teagan exploded. “Everyone knows that isn’t true!”

Ignoring him, Isolde said, “Since we cannot be sure what terrible things you may have been exposed to, dear Alistair, it wouldn’t be safe to allow you to remain in Ferelden. We’re going to banish you to the Free Marches.”

“These people saved your life, Isolde! Connor’s life! Eamon’s life! How dare you turn against them now?” Teagan said in outrage. Alistair was watching Dorothea and the Grand Cleric, his face unreadable for once.

“What have they done for me lately?” Isolde asked. “Ancient history does not interest me, Teagan.”

At the back of the room, Oghren started forward, opening his mouth to bluster, but Anders, who had been carefully watching Alistair, caught his friend’s arm and shook his head. 

The Grand Cleric met Alistair’s eyes. “I’m afraid it’s checkmate, don’t you think?”

“Stop!” Thora cried. “All of you, just stop!” Everyone looked down at her in surprise. “Alistair,” she said, “I have to talk to you.” She turned around, walking toward the door.

Dorothea called out, with an edge of hysteria in her tone, “You can’t do that!”

Alistair followed his love warily. Whatever she wanted to talk about wasn’t going to be good. That much was easy to tell. He just wished she’d waited until he’d gotten the rest of the situation under control. He closed the door of the Grand Cleric’s office behind him. The two of them stood in the antechamber, which afforded a modicum of privacy. 

Dorothea started after him, but was stopped in her tracks when Anders and Oghren both stepped in front of the door. “Sorry, Yer Majesty,” Oghren said, shaking his head at her. Intimidated by the gruff voice, the massive armor, and the bristling red beard, Dorothea stepped back. 

Outside, Thora turned slowly to look at Alistair. “I know what I need to do,” she said. “I’m sorry, I should have done it from the start. I tried to, I really did, but …” She trailed off, and Alistair looked down at her impatiently.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something here, love. Whatever it is you’re getting at, please just get to it.”

“I think … if I … If I wasn’t here—“

“If you weren’t here?” he said, moving closer to her. “What do you mean?” His heart was in his throat. She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant. 

Thora swallowed hard, squaring her shoulders, and meeting his eyes. “If I left, took myself completely out of your life, you could retake your throne and you wouldn’t lose your son.”

Alistair stared at her in disbelief and confusion. They were well past this—didn’t she realize that? But as he looked into her eyes, it was obvious that she thought this was the right course, and she was perfectly willing to do it. His brain felt sluggish and frozen, unable to work through what was happening. And then a spark flared deep inside him, and he felt anger begin to build, rising rapidly until it could not be contained. He reached out, grasping her shoulders so tightly he wouldn’t have been surprised if his fingers left dents in her armor. “Don’t you DARE try to walk away from me!” he shouted. 

Thora’s face paled, her eyes wide as she stared up at him. “But—“

“What in the Maker’s sodding name do you think you’re doing?” He wanted to shake her, or to kiss her until she couldn’t remember her name, much less whatever hare-brained plans her desperation and exhaustion were pushing her into. He let go of her, turning away to try and get his temper under control. Balling his fist, he smashed it into the wall, the pain clearing his head somewhat. Just as he was hoping he hadn’t broken anything, he saw the familiar blue light and felt the tingle of healing through his hand. Anders’s quiet laughter came through the wall. “I’m really starting to like that mage,” Alistair said. He looked at Thora again, somewhat calmer now.

She couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Alistair. It’s the only way.”

“When are you ever going to learn to trust me? You don’t have to do this on your own all the time! Did it occur to you that I might have an opinion about this?”

Thora looked miserably at his neck, afraid to look higher. “You— I wanted to protect you.”

“I don’t need to be protected. I need you!” he said. “I thought we said we were going to stay together.”

“You said that,” she said sadly. 

“And you reserved comment. I see,” Alistair said icily. He stepped back, his nostrils flaring with sudden hurt. “Had what you wanted and that’s it, is it? Did I perform to your satisfaction?”

“It wasn’t like that,” she cried, her jaw dropping. He couldn’t really think that, could he? “You were so—determined, and I …”

“Thought you’d play along until you decided you’d had enough?”

“No! I just … You seemed so sure everything would work out, and I didn’t want to—I didn’t think it would be that easy,” she said.

“Oh, I see. You were humoring me. Patting me on the head, as it were. Sweet little innocent Chantry boy, needs to be taken care of by the big strong dwarf.”

The sarcasm stung. “Well, look at what’s happened! It’s such a … mess!” she said. 

“What is this, Thora, you’re with me until it gets too complicated? I believe in us; I believe we can get through anything as long as we’re together.” Alistair sighed. “But you don’t, and you never have.”

“They were going to take the throne away from you!” Her voice was very small. “They were going to take Duncan! What kind of us would we be, after I’d cost you so much? You would resent me.”

“Has any of that happened yet? Has anyone done more than threaten?”

“No.”

“How a woman so fearless on the battlefield is so easily pushed around by politics, I will never understand. Orzammar should be glad you never became Queen.” He ran a hand impatiently through his hair. “You were the one who forced me to become King of Ferelden, but you’ve never thought I was good enough to share in your decision-making. About anything! You always think you need to make the decisions, and I let you most of the time. Because usually you make the right ones. But don’t think I’m going to stand here and let you make the biggest mistake of our lives. I haven’t been that naïve boy you met at Ostagar for a long time—and I can’t believe that you, of all people, still refuse to see that.”

Now Thora did meet his eyes, her own widening in shocked realization. After all the times she had accused other people of underestimating Alistair, it had never occurred to her that she had underestimated him most of all.

He nodded, seeing the understanding in her eyes, and stepped closer, looming over her so she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. Usually he tried to avoid putting her in that position, but in this case he was angry enough not to care. “Let’s leave aside what it would do to our daughter if you really did try this, because I know you’re not thinking straight right now … but you have to know that it’s gone well past this. Even if Dorothea accepted you leaving as some kind of declaration of peace, the Grand Cleric won’t. Isolde and Eamon won’t.” He gripped her shoulders again, not so hard this time. “Love, I understand that you’re scared. And that you think sacrificing yourself will make all this go away for me. But you’re also sacrificing me, and I won’t be sacrificed. Not again.”

Thora blinked away tears, looking into his face, unable to say anything.

“I know you don’t believe this, but I have the situation under control. I’ve had it under control,” Alistair said quietly. “But before I go back in there and fix this mess, you have to make a decision, right here and right now.” He held Thora’s eyes with his. “I love you,” he said, “and you love me. That’s not in question. What is in question is whether you can really take me as your partner—not an occasional lover, not a Second, not just your child’s father, but your equal partner—and learn to ask for my opinion before you make decisions.”

Thora shivered, closing her eyes. She’d always been in charge. Her role since childhood had been simple; she’d been commanding troops before she turned twenty. She’d never learned to share command. Could she now? Or was it too late for her to learn how? But what was the alternative? Learning to live without him again? Explaining to Anawyn that somehow she’d ruined everything, just when they were becoming a real family? She might as well go straight to the Deep Roads if she continued on this course, because she’d have given up all the light and air in her life. 

But what if he was wrong? What if he couldn’t fix this—if they couldn’t fix this—and they were sent away from Ferelden, away from his son, and he could never forgive her?  
She opened her eyes and looked at him. There were lines in his face, grey hairs in the gold, that hadn’t been there during the Blight. Why had she been so quick to assume all the change in him must be on the outside? She owed it to him—to Anawyn—to have faith now that he knew what he was doing.

“Yes,” she whispered, so softly that he wasn’t sure at first that he’d heard her. “Yes, I can learn to ask for your opinion. I promise.” And then her arms were sliding around his waist as she clung to him.

Alistair took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face up to his. “Good.” Relief flooded through him, his heart pounding with it, but he was still too angry with her to let her see how frightened he’d been. It took all his years of practice keeping himself under control not to sink down to his knees and hold her close. Later, he promised himself. Later.

“I’m sorry,” Thora said.

“Even better.” He grinned suddenly. “You’ll make it up to me later.” Still holding her chin, he kissed her, hard. “Now, trust me.” Thora nodded, loosening her grip on his waist. Alistair led her back into the Grand Cleric’s office. He looked at the others, his face hard and set in grim lines that none of them had ever seen in him before. “Everyone in this room who is not the King of Ferelden, sit down.”


	75. Taking Care of Business

Alistair waited while everyone else found seats. Except Dorothea, who stood with her fists on her hips. “Did you change genders while I was gone?” he asked mildly. 

Dorothea sputtered a bit, but took a seat. Alistair advanced across the room toward the Grand Cleric, who sat behind her desk. 

He folded his arms. “Now, you’ve all had your say. You’ve all had a lot to say. And I have waited. And watched. And listened.” He looked at Eamon, then his gaze traveled over Isolde and to the Grand Cleric. “The Chantry taught me to do that. So, thanks.” He smiled thinly. “I like to see the whole picture—I’m not too fond of surprises. So now I know what you all want; you know what I want. But I know something the rest of you—including my beautiful but stubborn lover back there—don’t seem to realize.” 

“Pray tell, what might that be, Your Majesty?” the Grand Cleric asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“Put simply, I may be the only person here who actually understands the balance of power in Ferelden.” Alistair looked at Teagan. “I take that back. Teagan understands politics entirely too well to be caught on the wrong side. And, of course, underestimating Isolde is always a mistake.” His eyes rested on Isolde’s fuming face for a moment, and he laughed quietly. “I suspect you know what I know, my lady, which is why you gathered your pawns in my absence. You knew it would take all three of them working in concert to oppose me successfully. It must have been a lot of very delicate work, trying to maneuver each of them without them knowing you were working on the others. Tell me,” he said, stepping closer to Isolde’s chair and looking down at her. “Which one was the most difficult to endure in bed, my lady?” 

Her eyes widened at the out-of-character vulgarity. 

Alistair chuckled. “Isolde, you seem to have forgotten that I’m not ten anymore. Or twenty.” He looked at Eamon, Dorothea, and the Grand Cleric in turn. “So here’s the plan, as I understand it: in my absence you discredit me with rumors; get the Grand Cleric to declare me unfit; exile me off somewhere barren and desolate and hard to return from; put Duncan on the throne; and then,” he looked back at Isolde, his anger plain on his face, “turn the country over to the Empress for a nice reward. Isn’t that right, my lady?!” He thundered the question at her, and she shrank back in the chair in spite of herself. Dorothea looked shocked. Eamon’s face slackened, sorrow and betrayal evident in the compression of his lips and the smoldering coals of his eyes as he stared at his wife. The Grand Cleric raised her eyebrows, settling back into her chair.

Thora was stunned—she’d never even considered that angle of the issue. Oghren looked as at sea as she was, but Anders was nodding, and Teagan was smiling.

“All the fighting, all the years of war, and we were going to lose the country because you two are weak-minded idiots,” Alistair shouted, glaring at Eamon and Dorothea. “And because I trusted my throne to the wrong people. It won’t happen again.” He took a deep breath, getting his temper under control. “This is why your little scheme was bound to fall apart as soon as I came back: my people love me. And they love Thora. It’s as simple as that.” He looked at the Grand Cleric. “The Chantry rules through fear, and people resent the Chantry’s high-handedness and rigidity. I’m considered a fair and approachable leader, and because I’ve spent so much time on the march, amongst the people, they feel I understand and sympathize with their troubles. Which I do.” He looked at Eamon. “Your family is loved, because of your sister … but even though she seems to have been a harder worker and more competent monarch than my father, the country still remembers him with near-fanatical devotion, and that carries over to me. And in addition, I’m young. I’m seen as the future of the country, whereas your name is still tied to the past.” He looked at Dorothea, and his anger softened a bit. “And unfortunately, my Queen, you simply have never been able to overcome the romantic legend of the Blight. Two young people save the country and improbably fall in love on their way.” He looked at Thora, standing by the door still. “In the minds and hearts of many Fereldans, I still belong with that extraordinary woman back there. I’m sorry you got caught up in that,” he said to Dorothea. “If I could have done things differently, I would have.”

“Of all the arrogance,” Dorothea said. “You can talk all you want, but you’re an affront to decent people, with your dwarf lover and your half-caste bastard!”

Alistair laughed. “Actually, Anawyn is probably what makes my position the strongest.” He looked at Teagan, who nodded, amused. “Everyone thought it was a terrible idea, acknowledging my half-dwarf child, but the people embraced it. It added to the legend, it gave them sympathy with me, and it made them feel they could trust me to be honest with them. I did it because she’s my daughter, and I love her, and it was the right thing to do … but politically, it was genius.” 

“Now, my boy, really, genius?” Eamon said, clearing his throat.

“Eamon, I am not a boy, and as you’ve made abundantly clear my entire life, I have never been yours,” Alistair snapped. “And if you think I’m wrong, look at your wife. She clearly agrees with me—she’s not even trying to argue.” Isolde crossed her arms sulkily.

Alistair went quietly over to Teagan. “Do you know about my mother?” Teagan nodded. “And will you be willing and able to tell me and Anawyn about her?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. I can’t make you my new Chancellor—too many associations with your brother—but your loyalty and friendship will be rewarded. You have my word on that.” He held out his hand, and the two men clasped wrists.

“It has been my pleasure, Alistair,” Teagan said.

Alistair walked over to Eamon. “Eamon, you’re out. Clear your belongings from the palace, and you and Isolde are hereby banished from the kingdom. Go back to Orlais, Isolde, and see how the Empress receives you without the nation of Ferelden as your gift.” Isolde looked at him, white-faced, and Eamon started to speak. “It’s done,” Alistair snapped, cutting off whatever Eamon might have said. “This is the bed you made, Eamon. I hope it’s comfortable.” He turned his back on them and looked at Oghren, standing in the back of the room. “Oghren, will you make sure the ex-Chancellor and his wife make haste removing themselves from the city? Find the soldier Jones. Tell him to pick three other men and escort Eamon and Isolde to the Orlesian border.”

“My sodding pleasure,” Oghren growled.

Alistair stalked toward the Grand Cleric, who watched him silently. “You should start packing, too,” he said. “Because when the Chantry finds out that Ferelden has opened lines of lyrium trade with  
Orzammar, they’ll be pretty angry with me. But they’ll be absolutely furious with you.”

“You can’t,” she cried, aghast. 

“I can. The Chantry won’t like it, granted,” he said, “but it’s Gorim’s decision. I’d be a fool not to go along with it.” He grinned at the Grand Cleric. “Of course, Ferelden wil gain by it, as well.”

“They’ll lead an Exalted March on you,” she said threateningly.

“I think not,” Alistair said, shaking his head. “I can be quite persuasive.” 

“And me? How do you plan to get rid of me?” Dorothea asked belligerently.

Alistair studied her for a moment. “I’d like to speak with you privately,” he said.

“Very well,” Dorothea said grudgingly. “If you must.”

Oghren left the room, escorting Eamon and Isolde in front of him. Alistair looked at the Grand Cleric. “Don’t go far, please,” he said.

“You think I have anything further to say to you?”

“I think that I can tell the Chantry as much—or as little—about your involvement in an attempted overthrow of the government of Ferelden as is necessary. How much I tell them will be in proportion to how helpful you are,” Alistair said grimly. “In general, I don’t blame you overmuch. You took advantage of an opportunity that hung in your face. Most in your position would have done the same. So, if you cooperate—for example, by issuing a statement that all rumors about my being under the influence of blood magic are false—your involvement will be minimized. If not …” He shrugged. “Where do you think you’d end up, if it were known? I’d think the best you could hope for is to be named lay-sister in a Chantry in the Free Marches. Sounds cozy.”

The Grand Cleric’s mouth tightened, her eyes sparking with anger. “Fine,” she snapped, turning on her heel and stalking from the room.

With a curt nod for Eamon and Isolde and the Grand Cleric, Alistair took Teagan by the arm. “Would you mind taking Thora back to your estate? She’s clearly exhausted, and I’d like it if she could get some sleep. Tell Anawyn everything’s fine, please.”

“Of course.” Teagan kept pace with Alistair as they moved toward the back of the room. “I’ve always known you had it in you,” he said quietly.

Surprised, Alistair glanced at the older man. “Thank you.” Teagan stepped aside as they reached Thora. Alistair cupped her cheek tenderly. “Trust me now?” he said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t before. I didn’t … see what you saw,” she said.

“I know. That’s why you’re the Commander of the Grey and I’m the King,” he said. “Please go with Teagan and get some rest. I’ll be along later. And this will all be over. I promise,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Thora nodded. It was strange to be in this position, taking orders from him, but perhaps it was about time, as well, she reflected. Alistair reached out a hand to Anders, who took it, silent understanding passing between the two of them. Anders put a hand on Thora’s shoulder as they left the room with Teagan.

Alistair was left facing his wife.


	76. Don't Be Cruel

When the door closed behind Teagan, Dorothea turned to Alistair, her fists clenched at her sides. “If you think you can talk me out of your hair, the way you did the others, you can think again,” she said threateningly.

He sank into the Grand Cleric’s chair. “Pretty interesting that you’re still taking that tone with me. Look around you, Dorothea. You’ve got no support left.”

“I don’t need support! I’m the Queen!”

“Yes, you’re the Queen. And you gave birth to the heir to the throne. No one’s forgotten that. I haven’t forgotten that, which is why you’re standing there and not being hauled off to Fort Drakon in chains.”

Dorothea’s mouth popped open in outrage.

Alistair leaned forward, his face set sternly. “You conspired to depose the King. That, my Queen, is treason. And the punishment for treason …” He let the words hang in the air unsaid. 

Her face paled slightly, and she took a small step backward. “You wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t. But I could. I would be completely within my rights.” He stood up, his fists planted on the desk. “And don’t think I haven’t thought about it! It’s not just my rule and my life that you placed in jeopardy. You jeopardized my son, my daughter, and our country’s foremost hero.”

“Hero,” Dorothea scoffed. “Your whore! Your ugly dwarf whore!”

She’d never seen his eyes so black, and there was pure rage in the look he gave her. “Call her that again and I will kill you myself,” he said. His voice betrayed the tight control he held himself in, and Dorothea backed up more. For the first time, she saw the powerful warrior in him, and it frightened her. Alistair closed his eyes, flexing his hands and taking deep breaths. When he was calm again, he looked at her. There was sorrow in his eyes and regret in his voice when he spoke again. “You have no call to think of her that way. You have no idea what she sacrificed to give you the marriage you deserved.”

“The marriage I deserved?” Dorothea couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and her outrage overcame her fear. “I deserved a husband who dreamed of his dwarf lover while he was in bed with me, who ran off to be with her, not even bothering to hide it? You made me the laughingstock of Ferelden!”

“You made yourself the laughingstock,” Alistair snapped. “With your jealousy and insecurity. I was faithful to you from the day I agreed to marry you until … well, until just a few days ago.” 

“You expect me to believe that?”

“When have I ever lied to you?” He leaned forward, his eyes holding hers intently. “I have been honest with you from the start, and you have always insisted on believing there was more that I wasn’t telling you. For the last time, Dorothea, there wasn’t. I was completely faithful to you during our marriage. But somewhere along after Duncan was born, you stopped treating me as a husband. You decided you didn’t want to try for another child, you decided you didn’t want to share my bed, and what we had stopped being a marriage.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t love me now, if you ever did—you don’t even like me. And I’m tired of taking the brunt of your anger and disappointment.”

“So what, then?”

Alistair shrugged. “As you know, I have a shortened life span due to being a Grey Warden. I’m going to spend the time I have left with the woman I love.”

“Good luck with that. Or have you forgotten that we are still married?”

“Not for long. Make no mistake, Dorothea, our marriage will be annulled. And quickly, too. You were never fit to be Queen of Ferelden—I shouldn’t have chosen you.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” There was a note of panic in her voice now. It was slowly becoming clear to her that he meant it.

“You’re leaving.” She blinked at him, confused, and he sighed. “You’re Duncan’s mother. I couldn’t face my son if I had you imprisoned, and I don’t want him growing up with that stigma.”

“Where exactly am I going?” She hissed the words in an imitation of her habitual bitterness, but he could hear the fear underneath.

“You will become a lay sister of the Chantry—and no, you have no hope of ever being a Revered Mother, so don’t start thinking about potential avenues to power that way,” he warned. He’d seen the speculative look cross her face and felt it necessary to cut that line of thinking off at the start. “You’ll have a small yearly stipend from me that I will cut off if you even think about causing trouble for Ferelden, for me, or for anyone I care about.”

“And my son? Am I supposed to just give him up?” It was her last card, and she played it desperately.

“I’ve never seen any real indication that you wanted him,” Alistair said bitterly. Her indifference toward Duncan had been the biggest disillusionment of their marriage, for him. Having grown up desperately longing for his own mother, it had never occurred to him that a mother could care that little about her child’s interests and affection. “Do you?”

The reply that rose to Dorothea’s lips was automatically self-righteous, but she swallowed it in the face of Alistair’s challenging expression. She had gone too far down the road for him to believe her now, and in that realization came the knowledge of her defeat. “No,” she muttered finally.

“At last,” Alistair said in relief. “Honesty.”

“I haven’t lied to you,” Dorothea said in real surprise.

“Maybe not to me,” he said, “but to yourself over and over again. You wanted Duncan as a status symbol, as a sign to the world what a wonderful queen and wife and mother you were … but you never actually wanted to be a wonderful queen, or wife, or mother.”

Dorothea’s defenses were collapsing, her legs trembling beneath her, and she sank into a chair. “Where—Where are you going to send me?”

“I had thought,” Alistair said, his lip quirking slightly, “of sending you to the chantry in Orzammar. Because I know how you enjoy the company of dwarves …” He bit his cheek to repress his grin when she looked up, her eyes widening in panic and the beginnings of a return to anger. “But then I thought, I’ll probably be in Orzammar relatively frequently, and I don’t want you that close.”

Her shoulders slumped in relief.

“Instead,” he went on, “you’ll go to Nevarra.”

“Nevarra?” she snapped. “Why not all the way to Rivain—Maker knows, I might be able to come back from Nevarra once in a while.”

“Oh, I thought about Rivain. Or even farther. Trust me, I want you as far from any chance to make trouble as I can … but Duncan deserves to be able to see you if he wishes to.” He met her eyes, holding her gaze until she looked away, sure that no complaint of hers was going to change his mind. 

Dorothea swallowed miserably, and Alistair hardened his heart against it. Despite everything she had done, he still felt a certain guilt about the position he had put her in—it had been beyond his ability to approach their marriage with a whole heart, and part of him felt he had owed her better than that. But her recent actions made it impossible for him to continue living the lie their marriage had become—as did his rekindled relationship with Thora. He could no sooner part with his love again than he could stop breathing. Just thinking about her, waiting for him, made him want to jump in the air and weep with joy at the same time. With difficulty, Alistair controlled his thoughts, bringing them back to the conversation at hand. 

“Let me make it very, very clear,” he said. “You may, if you wish, have occasional scheduled visits with Duncan. But if you return to Ferelden without my permission, you will be brought back and put on trial for your attempt to usurp the throne.” 

He stood, watching her as she sat with her head bowed, for a long while. At last, Dorothea said dispiritedly, “Very well.”

“Excellent.” He held out a hand to her. “Now, let’s head back to the palace. My Chancellor is no longer with me, but we’ll see if we can find someone who can draw up and witness a contract for the terms of your exile. Perhaps we’ll even run into the Grand Cleric and we can get her to start the annulment process.” 

As he helped her up, Dorothea looked up into his face. “Is this what you wanted?”

“No. But it’s what you made of it.”

Hours later, Alistair finally emerged from his study at the palace. Dorothea had signed the terms of her exile, witnessed by two Banns who happened to be in the palace. Guards had been chosen to accompany her back to the Chantry in Denerim, and to stay with her until she was safely on a ship bound for Nevarra. The Grand Cleric had begun the annulment paperwork. Alistair also had a report from Oghren that the dwarf had personally made sure the ex-Chancellor and his wife’s things were packed—none too gently, Alistair suspected. Eamon and Isolde would be leaving shortly to begin their long journey. 

Alistair stretched his back, stiff from long hours in a chair. He’d have to get used to this indoor life all over again, he thought. A door banged sharply, and he saw Isolde, wrapped in a bulky cloak, exiting her room, followed by Eamon. The older man turned, as if he sensed Alistair’s eyes on him, and took a step toward Alistair.

“I am so sorry,” Eamon said hoarsely, but Alistair shook his head sharply.

“Too little, too late. Don’t—.” He couldn’t leave it at that, though. The memory of his mother’s amulet, painstakingly repaired, softened his heart. “May the Maker watch over you, Eamon.”

“And over you,” Eamon said. He turned, quickening his steps to catch up with his wife. Alistair watched them go, feeling saddened. But as the man he had once looked upon as a father turned the corner, Alistair’s heart lightened. This day may have been an ending of that old relationship, but it was the beginning, too, of new ones, and he couldn’t wait to start. He strode down the hall toward Duncan’s room.

Dorothea was inside, saying good-bye to the little boy. He heard Duncan’s piping voice and Dorothea’s softer one, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a few moments, she exited the room, putting a hand over her heart in surprise when she saw Alistair. “Must you sneak?” she asked. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

Dorothea sighed, looking back at the closed door of her son’s room. “I will miss him,” she admitted, uncomfortable with the truth, “but not as much as you would.” She looked down at her perfectly manicured hands. “I was never cut out to be a mother, I think,” she said. “That is … hard for a woman to accept.”

For some reason, she suddenly reminded Alistair of Morrigan—Morrigan who had never intended to be a real mother, and had found it difficult to accept that she had become a good one. His heart went out to Dorothea as it never had before. To have a single purpose in life, and then to find out that you were not cut out for that purpose, had to be devastating. “You made a good effort,” he said gently. It wasn’t true, but what would have been the point in the blunt truth at this late date?

“He will be happier with a … family,” she said, clearly trying not to choke on the word. 

“I hope you will find peace, at least, if not happiness,” Alistair said, meaning it.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” he said sadly. “If you could ever have believed that, things might have turned out differently.”

Dorothea stared at him for a long moment. “I wish you had chosen any of the other girls that night,” she said, “and left me alone.” With a swish of skirts, she swept past him, her guards following her.

Alistair watched her go, wondering if he could have saved them all years of stress simply by choosing a different girl. But that choice had been made long ago … and now his future spread out before him filled with the kind of happiness he had never before dared to believe possible. The grin he could no longer repress spread across his face, and a whoop of joy escaped him.


	77. Come Together

Alistair knocked softly on Duncan’s door and went into the room. Duncan’s face lit up when he saw his father, and he launched himself into Alistair’s arms. He clung tightly, burying his face in Alistair’s neck. At last, the little body gave a shuddering sigh, the arms that were nearly strangling Alistair loosened, and the bright brown eyes looked into Alistair’s dark ones. “Daddy, are you going away again?”

“No, little bear,” Alistair said, cuddling Duncan closer. “I’m not going anywhere—and if I do, you’re coming with me. I promise.” He took a deep breath. “As a matter of fact, how would you like to go somewhere with me right now? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“We’re going to go meet some friends.” Alistair took his son by the hand. “Now, on our way, why don’t you tell me everything you’ve been doing while I was gone?”

The little boy immediately launched into a stream of chatter. Alistair paid little attention to the actual words, but hearing the beloved voice again was well worth everything he’d gone through that day. 

As they neared the doors of the palace, a pair of guards came hurrying over. “Your Majesty,” said one breathlessly. “Are you and the young prince going out?”

“Yes,” Alistair said, his tone inviting the guards to explain why they were asking.

“Don’t you need an escort, sire?” The guard was young, and nervous, but determined to do his duty. Alistair admired him for that. He was about to say so when a hoarse voice cut into the conversation.

“He’s got all th’ escort he needs, eh, Yer Majesty?” Oghren grinned cheekily, the fumes of whatever he’d been drinking wafting through the room. The young guard recoiled.

“Er, sire, um, really?” 

Alistair grinned. “What’s your name?” he asked the guard.

“Stephen, sire.”

“Well, Stephen, as it happens, I think Warden Oghren will be a fine escort today, but I’ll look for you the next time I feel like leaving the palace. How will that be?”

“Uh … sure. I mean, of course. I mean, aye, ser!” Stephen blushed, stepping back to allow the king to pass.

As they left the palace, Alistair noticed Duncan’s wide eyes and open mouth, as the little boy stared at the big, hairy dwarf. “Duncan, this is Oghren. He’s a … good friend.”

“Aw, I love you, too, nug-humper,” Oghren said, burping.

“Or, you know, just someone I seem to spend a lot of time with,” Alistair amended, shaking his head.

Duncan stared for another moment, then said in a whisper, “Are you a real dwarf?”

Oghren guffawed. “I ain’t a bronto, if that’s what yer thinkin’, lad.” He sobered, looking at the little face turned up to his. “You remind me a bit of my boy, Rog. He’s about yer age.”

“Is he a dwarf, too?”

“Last time I looked,” Oghren said, grinning. “Got a little girl, too. Aeda. Haven’t seen ‘em in a while.”

Alistair could hear the pain in his friend’s voice. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll get you on your way back to the Vigil,” he said.

Oghren gave him a sober look. “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer Majesty, but that’ll be up to the Commander.”

“Of course,” Alistair murmured. Clearly he and Thora were both going to have to do some work on learning to let the other one lead. 

“My Daddy has a daughter, too,” Duncan said quietly to Oghren, and Alistair was startled to see that Duncan was walking with his hand buried confidingly in Oghren’s big paw. Duncan rarely trusted that easily. But of course, Oghren’s larger than life personality with its vibrant color was attractive to a child. Duncan went on, “Mommy said Daddy’s daughter is a dwarf. Does she look … like you?” he asked, clearly trying not to be offensive.

“Like me? No,” Oghren said. He looked at Duncan thoughtfully. “I bet you’re gonna meet her soon, lad, and you can tell me.”

“Will that other dwarf be there?” Duncan asked. “Mommy said …”

“Yer mam said a few things she oughtn’t,” Oghren growled. Then, remembering who he was talking to, he said more gently, “Good lesson for ya, boy. Make up yer own mind about the people you meet—don’t let anyone else tell ya what they’re about. Even yer folks. When ya meet the other dwarf, you see for yerself if you think what yer mam said was right.”

“Do you like her?”

“The Commander? Stone, yeah! Known ‘er since she was a little ‘un. But the important part’s gonna be whether you like ‘er, nuglet.”

“What’s a nuglet?”

“A baby nug.”

“What’s a nug?”

Alistair had to laugh at Oghren’s bellow of outrage and the spirited description of nugs that followed. He wasn’t sure Duncan could follow Oghren’s colorful turns of phrase, but it was clear the dwarf had made a friend. If only Duncan would like Thora as much, he thought apprehensively. 

They arrived at Teagan’s estate, Duncan and Oghren still carrying on a lively conversation. The great hall was filled with friends, but Alistair had eyes only for the two shining red heads of his daughter and his love, sitting side by side on a couch. His eyes met Thora’s, and he was relieved to see that the dark circles and pallor had improved significantly. She must have rested. He wanted to rush across the room, to pick her up and kiss her, marking her as his in front of everyone now that he finally was free to do so, but a glance at Duncan reminded him that it wasn’t yet the time for that kind of abandon.

Thora’s eyes brightened when he came in, and Anawyn jumped up from her seat, running to her father. She leaped into his arms, hugging him tightly. “We were so worried for you, Father,” she said.

“I’m all right, little love,” Alistair said. “It’s all over. And there’s someone I want you to meet,” he whispered into her ear. Setting her down, he said, “Anawyn, this is Duncan. Duncan, this is Anawyn. She’s your sister.”

Anawyn smiled down at the little boy, tousling his brown curls. “You’re so cute!”

“Hey! No messing with the hair!” Duncan said, sounding so like Alistair that everyone laughed. Duncan looked around the room, clearly both pleased and embarrassed to have garnered such attention. 

Thora had come to stand next to Anawyn, and she and Duncan looked at each other for a moment. Alistair’s heart was pounding as he introduced them. Duncan’s eyes were wide as he studied Thora’s face. She crossed one arm over her chest, bowing formally to the little boy. “Duncan, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.

Duncan nodded shyly, stepping back to be closer to his father’s side.

Alistair squeezed his son’s shoulder comfortingly. Then he unbuckled the scabbard on his back. “Before I forget,” he said, “I picked up something on my way. I would have made the Grand Cleric bring it herself, but she’s busy filling out a lot of papers, so I agreed to return this.” He removed Maric’s blade from the scabbard, handing it hilt-first to Thora.

Thora took the sword, feeling its familiar weight. Duncan’s eyes were drawn to the glowing runes set into the metal. “Can I touch it?” he whispered.

“Of course.” As the little boy’s fingers traced the pattern, Thora said to him, “This sword was found in the Deep Roads by your grandfather Maric.” She hesitated, then said, “Someday, this will be yours.”

Duncan’s eyes met hers. “Really? You mean it?”

“Of course.” Anawyn, being a mage, would have less need for the sword, and Maric’s blade should belong to his grandchild. Thora looked up and saw Alistair’s smile, basking in its sunshine. “I have something else to show you,” she said to Duncan. She sheathed the sword and drew her dagger, laying the hilt gently in Duncan’s palm. “This dagger belonged to the first Duncan. Your father told you about him, didn’t he?”

Duncan nodded. “Did you know Duncan, too?”

“I did. He saved my life,” Thora said.

“How?” Duncan asked, returning the dagger.

“I think I can take it from here,” Leliana said, swooping in with Perth following close behind. “If I can have a hug from my favorite little boy, I’ll tell you the whole story. You, too, Anawyn,” she said. She led the two children away to the seating area, sitting them down and beginning the story.

“That’s a relief,” Thora said. “I don’t know how I’d have made that story fit for a 5-year-old!”

“Leave it to Leliana,” Perth said. “She can do anything.” He smiled fondly at the bard’s animated face. Gradually Perth, Sigrun, Jens, Anders, and Oghren all drifted that way, drawn in by Leliana’s storytelling skills. Teagan left the room to call for dinner to be served. Thora and Alistair were left standing together.

“Maker, I want to kiss you right now,” Alistair said quietly, his voice husky.

Thora felt her insides quiver. “Is there some reason you shouldn’t?”

“Yes.” She paled, but he went on. “Duncan just said good-bye to his mother. I don’t think he needs to see me moving on quite so immediately. We’ll just have to give him time to get used to us,” he said. “Is that okay?”

“Of course. Is … What happened?”

“Dorothea is going to minister to the Nevarrans. And our annulment proceedings are being expedited by the Chantry. I’m well on my way to being a free man,” he said, his eyes warm and happy as they rested on hers. “Care to help me celebrate tonight?”

Thora felt warmth spread through her limbs in anticipation. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	78. In Your Room

As Leliana’s story drew to a close, servants began coming into the hall with trays. “I hope you remembered that you’re feeding five hungry Grey Wardens, my friend,” Thora said to Teagan. He looked confused, counting on his fingers, and Thora laughed. “Don’t forget Anawyn! She has a Warden’s appetite and a growing girl’s appetite. I’ve seen her out-eat Alistair.”

“Is that possible?” Teagan asked.

“Let’s see.” Alistair grinned, taking a plate and beginning to fill it. Everyone else soon followed suit, and shortly the platters were empty and most plates had been cleaned and set aside … except for Alistair’s and Anawyn’s. Both of them finished their food and reached for the last chicken leg at the same time. While they were arguing over who got it, Duncan snatched it off the plate and retreated to Oghren’s protection. “You little scamp!” Alistair said. “I’ll get you for that.”

“Oh, yeah, nug-humper?” Duncan giggled. 

Amidst loud groans, Oghren proudly patted the boy on the head. “My work here is done,” he said grandly, waving his mug in the air to punctuate the sentence. 

Slowly everyone settled into seats around the fire. Alistair and Thora were on the settee. Duncan was curled up in his father’s arms, his eyes blinking more and more slowly, and Anawyn leaned against her mother’s shoulder. Perth and Leliana shared a single chair and seemed far more intent on each other than on the gathering. Oghren was on the floor, Anders and Teagan in arm chairs, and Jens was stretched out before the fire with his head in Sigrun’s lap.

At a lull in the conversation, Alistair said, “Teagan, I believe you have a story to tell all of us.”

Teagan looked at Alistair, startled. “I do?”

“Yes,” Alistair said, “the one I mentioned to you earlier.”

Comprehension dawned, and Teagan looked around at the assembled company. “Alistair, are you sure?”

“Everyone here is a dear friend,” Alistair said quietly. “And they all know entirely more than they should already. One more secret isn’t going to make a difference.”

“Very well.” Teagan took a sip of his brandy. “Once upon a time,” he began, his eyes resting on Anawyn, “there was a young King. He had recently lost his wife, and he was sad and lonely. One day, members of a strange and secret order—an order that had been banished from his country long ago—came to him, asking for his help. You see, they knew that years before he had made a journey through the Deep Roads, and they needed his help to find a member of their order who had gone missing.”

“What was the King’s name?” Duncan asked.

“Maric,” Alistair said, stroking the boy’s curly brown hair. “Your grandfather.”

“Ohhh,” Duncan said. He yawned, holding his eyes very wide in an attempt to keep them open. 

“The King was intrigued—going with them sounded better than sitting on his throne and brooding—and he decided to go along with them,” Teagan went on. “If I recall correctly, there was a woman, a dwarf, an ex-thief, and an elven mage. Possibly others. I’m not entirely sure.”

“The ex-thief,” Thora broke in. “That was Duncan?”

“Yes. He had only just joined the order at that point, I believe. You have to understand, I wasn’t there for most of this. I know only what I was told officially, and what I heard by listening to conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear.” Teagan grinned. “So the King led the Grey Wardens into the Deep Roads, following the call of their lost member. They fought darkspawn, deepstalkers, spiders, and I don’t know what all. At first, none of the Grey Wardens really trusted the King—especially the elf mage Fiona. But over time, they learned that he was perhaps foolhardy, but a man with a good heart and a great love for his people. And at some point the elf mage’s dislike became …” Teagan looked at Anawyn again. She was blinking sleepily, but still following the story. “Became something else. Something more, um, affectionate. In time they emerged from the Deep Roads—where they lost several of their members to a plot laid by some kind of human-darkspawn hybrid … thing.”

“It was the Architect,” Thora said. “We fought him in Amaranthine, just after Anawyn was born. Remember?” she asked Anders and Oghren. They both shuddered, remembering the strange sentient darkspawn.

“So he was around all that time ago?” Anders asked. “Creepy.”

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Alistair said. 

“There was something going on with an Orlesian chantry member and some plot to accelerate the taint in the Grey Wardens. I couldn’t really follow it all,” Teagan confessed. “But I do know that many months after the King had returned to Denerim, Fiona and Duncan returned. And Fiona carried with her something very precious—King Maric’s son, and hers, conceived in the Deep Roads.”

There were collective gasps, and Anawyn sat up straight, staring at Teagan. She turned to look at her father, and then her mother. One of Anawyn’s hands stole up to touch her ear, almost surprised to find it still round, not pointed and elven. She sank back against her mother’s side, resolving to save her questions for later.

“Fiona gave the baby to Maric, asking him to care for the boy. Grey Wardens apparently are not supposed to keep their children, or so she said,” he added, looking curiously at Thora.

“There are advantages to being so far from Weisshaupt,” Thora said serenely.

“Like to’ve seen ‘em try to take the cave tick,” Oghren growled.

“Or your children, my friend,” Anders said. The two men clinked mugs, toasting each other, and drank deeply.

“At any rate, Maric was … astounded. He’d had no idea, and wasn’t sure what to do with the child. Which is when my brother stepped in and offered to care for the boy. And I think you all know what came next,” Teagan concluded. “So now you know everything I do, Alistair.”

“Thank you, Teagan,” Alistair said softly.

Thora leaned her head against his arm, hugging Anawyn tighter.

“But what difference does it make?” Jens asked, his voice cutting through the hush that had fallen in the room.

“None, really, from a practical standpoint,” Teagan said. “Not now, anyway, although it might have mattered before Alistair took the throne.”

“But to know the truth about who my mother was,” Alistair said softly, “makes all the difference.” He took a deep breath, then said more firmly, “Thank you, Teagan. I appreciate it.” He stood, shifting the now-sleeping Duncan to his shoulder. “I think I’ll take this little fellow back to his bed.”

Thora stood, too. “Wardens,” she said in the voice of command, “we’ll be leaving tomorrow to return to Amaranthine. We’ve been gone too long, and I think none of us want to listen to Oghren’s dreams of Felsi any longer.” Oghren grinned lasciviously, and Anders groaned.

“I want a room in another part of the estate than his tonight, please,” the mage said. “Or a lot more booze.”

Perth and Leliana quietly said their good-nights to everyone and left the room arm-in-arm. Alistair looked at Anawyn. “Are you coming to the palace with us, or staying at Teagan’s?”

Anawyn’s eyes widened at the idea, but she squeezed Thora’s hand. “I’ll stay here with Mother,” she said.

Thora blushed, and Alistair smiled. “Your mother is coming back to the palace,” he said.

“Oh! Well, then, I’ll come with you,” Anawyn said happily, as if her parents sharing a room was the most natural thing in the world.

The four of them went out together, two guards sent along by Teagan discreetly following them across Denerim and to the palace. Alistair carried Duncan to his room, tucking the little boy gently into bed, and then led Anawyn to another room down the hall. “We’ll see you in the morning, then, little love,” he said. He and Thora both hugged their daughter, who was asleep almost before they had closed the door. Palace guards took up their stand outside the children’s doors. Thora found the constant guarding disturbing after spending almost half a year on the road without any. Being back in their normal roles was going to take some getting used to, she reflected, as Alistair led her to the door of a room at the end of the hall.

He opened the door, walking into the room with her. His throat was dry, his heart pounding, and he felt strangely nervous.

So did Thora, although for a different reason. She halted just inside the door, her eyes on the big bed in the middle of the room. “Alistair?”

“What is it, love?”

“I don’t— I mean, this room …”

“This is my room,” he said, not understanding her objection. 

“I know, but I don’t know if I can … Where you and she—“ She swallowed, not sure she could finish the thought.

“Oh.” Alistair took both her hands in his. “She— We never—“ He took a deep breath. “We were always in the royal bedchamber—I took this room to sleep in because of the nightmares. The only woman who has ever shared that bed with me is you. In endless fantasies. Will you make them come true for me, please?”

“When you put it that way …” she said, smiling at him. He locked the door behind her, leading her further into the room. And then they stood there looking at each other, unaccountably nervous and unsure what to do, and both feeling a bit silly about it. “I’m sorry I said we were leaving tomorrow,” she began tentatively. “I should have asked you first … but I need to get back, I’ve been away so long Nathaniel’s going to think he owns the place again, and Oghren needs to see his family, and—“

“No, you’re right,” he said, “you do need to get back, but I need to stay here. I’ve been away too long, Maker only knows what kind of messes I’ll have to clean up … And here I thought being together all the time was going to be the easy part,” he said. He sank onto the bed with a sigh.

“Still, it’s better than before.”

“And infinitely better than having you run off and leave me,” Alistair said, angry all over again at the memory. He grasped her wrist, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Don’t ever think about doing that again. From this moment on, you belong to me.” He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, his breath hot in her ear. “And I am never letting you go. Never, do you hear me?”

He felt her nod, her body trembling against his, and he twined his fingers in her hair, tilting her head back, kissing her hard and thoroughly. They broke apart, both breathing hard, but she looked so beautiful with her hair tousled and her face flushed and her lips reddened from his kisses that he kissed her again. He drew his fingers through the silk of her hair, relishing the texture. With some surprise, Alistair realized her hair was already longer than she usually kept it, even though it had only been a few days since he’d asked her to grow it out. “How long has it been since you cut your hair?” he asked.

“Since we left Denerim together to look for Anawyn,” Thora said, blushing. She was busy freeing herself from the constricting armor, and Alistair watched hungrily as each piece fell to the floor, his throat going dry as he saw her naked and lovely before him.

“You are amazing,” he whispered, drawing her close to him again. His mouth found hers, then moved down the side of her neck, nibbling gently. Thora sighed in pleasure, tilting her head to give him better access. Her hands slid under his shirt, finding the firm skin and hard muscles beneath. Alistair raised his arms, allowing her to push the shirt off over his head as she climbed onto his lap. He lay back with a groan as her mouth moved over his chest, and up to his neck. Alistair gasped, his hips thrusting up uncontrollably, as her teeth nipped in just the right spot, and Thora chuckled softly. Her hands moved down over his stomach to the laces of his breeches. Her mouth followed the same trail as she delved into the opening, finding his length. It throbbed in her hands, and Alistair groaned and whimpered as she covered him with her mouth. 

On fire, he reached for her, laying her back on the bed and stroking her body, marveling at the feel of the supple skin under his fingertips. He lifted one leg, kissing her knee and moving up the inside of her thigh until his lips and tongue found the core of her. Thora was melting, pleasure pouring through her like honey. She wrapped her legs over his shoulders, straining to get closer to Alistair’s hungry mouth, her hands tangling in his hair as he teased a particularly sensitive place with the tip of his tongue. 

Alistair’s hands closed on her hips, turning her over onto her hands and knees. Standing next to the bed, still gripping her hips, he found her center, sliding slowly inside. Thora gripped the bedclothes underneath her, moving against him, panting as his fingers moved over her, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Alistair!” she cried out desperately as those clever fingers sent her over the edge. 

“Maker,” he moaned, throwing his head back as he reached his peak, his movements growing erratic. At last, his passion spent, he fell onto the bed next to her, smiling into her flushed face.

Thora chuckled. “Was this one of your fantasies?” She reached out to stroke his hair, damp with exertion.

He brushed a kiss across her temple. “Better.” In slow, languid movements they shifted until they lay curled together under the covers. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“No. Not this time. I love you, Alistair.”

“And I love you. Always.”


	79. Wish I Could Stay

The next morning Alistair, Thora, and the children arrived at Teagan’s estate, where the rest of the group was just finishing breakfast. 

“All right, Wardens,” Thora said crisply. “Let’s get at it. I’m sure there’s still food at the Vigil.”

She noticed that they all filched a few extra biscuits as they rose. One problem with the long marches had been the lack of food in amounts suitable for Warden appetites, and they were all making up for it now. She bowed to Teagan. “Thank you for your hospitality. And everything. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay your kindness …”

“Have you forgotten Redcliffe during the Blight? You freed me from Connor’s mind control, you saved my nephew and my brother, for all the good it did you, and every person in my Arling owes you their life. The debt is, and always will be, mine,” he said gallantly, returning her bow.

Thora turned to Leliana. “I take it you’re staying here for the moment?” she asked, with a meaningful glance at Perth.

Leliana giggled, blushing. “I think so. Perhaps I’ll see you at Redcliffe sometime.”

“Take good care, my dear friend,” Thora said, hugging the bard. “And you,” she said to Perth, “try and keep her from running off after Andraste again, will you?”

“I shall do my best, my lady,” he said. He wrapped a long arm around Leliana’s waist and Thora’s heart warmed to see her friend so contented at last.

Jens had Sigrun lifted off the ground in a tight bear hug. He put her down, looking sad. “I will miss you.”

“Me, too, big guy.” Sigrun’s face was missing its cheery smile. “I hope someday we can go visit your sisters, like you talked about.”

“I think something can be worked out.” They both turned to see Alistair approaching. “Jens,” he said, “your loyalty and companionship have been invaluable all the way. I would like to offer you a position as Duncan’s personal bodyguard. I know of no one I would rather trust my son’s safety to.”

Jens studied the tips of his boots shyly. “Sire, I—I am not as quick as some,” he said haltingly.

“You’re quick enough when it counts,” Alistair said, clapping the big man on the back. “What do you say?”

At a sharp jab in the ribs from Sigrun, Jens looked up and nodded. “Thank you, sire. I will try to be worthy of the honor.”

“And once you’ve settled into the job, we’ll see if we can’t get you a leave of absence to visit your family. Maybe we can even talk the Commander into letting your friend here go along. What do you say, love?” he said to Thora, grasping her hand as she walked by and pulling her against him, his arm casually around her shoulders.

“What am I agreeing to?”

Alistair explained, and Thora smiled up at Jens. “I think we can make that happen, Jens. Just say when, and we’ll see if we can get along without her for a while.”

“Thank you, Commander!” Sigrun squealed, hugging the other dwarf. Jens’s thanks were as heartfelt, if less exuberant.

“We gettin’ this show on the road or what?” Oghren bellowed. “I leave that woman alone much longer and little Oghren won’t be able to find his way into the tunnel of love!”

“Ewww,” Anders said. “Why do we travel with him again?”

Alistair turned to Anawyn, holding his girl close. “You could stay, if you want, for a while,” he said. 

“I know, Father, but I want to go home. And you’ll be there soon, won’t you?” she asked, her eyes searching his face anxiously.

“Duncan and I will be there for your birthday,” he promised. “That’s only a month away. We’ll have a big bash, and after that, we’ll be a family for good.”

“Okay.” With a last squeeze, Anawyn let him go and ran to hug her little brother, who submitted stiffly at first, then started giggling as his sister tickled him.

Alistair took Thora’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “I don’t think Duncan’s ready to see me give you a proper good-bye yet,” he said.

“I suspect what you have in mind would be more improper, anyway,” she said.

“Improper would be what you did this morning,” he murmured, delighting in the blush that came to her cheeks. “I’ll be distracted in a lot of meetings by that memory in the month ahead.”

“Why dwell on the past?” Thora asked, grinning wickedly. “Wouldn’t that time be better spent coming up with some new ideas?”

“Tired of me already?”

“I’ve seen all your old moves,” she teased, feigning a yawn. “I was hoping you might have developed some new ones …”

The banter might have gone on all day had Anawyn not rushed over. “Father, I almost forgot,” she said, her hand touching her throat, where her grandmother’s amulet still rested. “Do you want this back?”

Alistair looked at Thora, seeing her mouth curve up in that special smile she only gave to him, and he shook his head. “No, little love,” he said, “you keep that. It’s yours now—wear it with pride.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said.

“Commander, if we don’t get started, Oghren’s going to explode, and none of us wants to see that,” Anders said loudly.

“All right,” Thora said. “Time to go!” With a last smile for Alistair, she led the Grey Wardens from the estate and on their way toward Amaranthine.

The traffic through the city and near the gates was pretty heavy, leaving the Wardens little opportunity to talk as they weaved their way through. It began to thin out half an hour or so from the city gates, and the compact group spread out a bit, walking a bit more easily. Thora found herself walking with Sigrun. “So …” she began, not entirely certain how to broach the subject she wanted to discuss.

“What?” Sigrun asked. “Oh, wait. Let me guess. You want to ask about Jens, don’t you?”

“I do, actually,” Thora said. “Not that it’s any of my business, but—I admit, I’m curious. Do you love him?”

Sigrun stared at her, then giggled wildly. “Very much,” she said, “but not at all in the way you mean. We’re just friends.”

“Right,” Thora said skeptically.

“No, really. He’s just a big kid, you know? And he misses his family, and I remind him of them. He’s … uncomplicated.” Sigrun looked straight ahead, her eyes misty. “My heart is still buried in Kal’Hirol, anyway, you know that. Sometimes I can feel people’s feet walking right over it.” She laughed a little.

Thora looked at her friend with compassion. “Jens is a very good friend to have,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” Sigrun said, “very useful when you need to get something down from a tall shelf. Ooh, look!” she called out, drifting off to the side of the road to study a clump of lacy flowers. Given that Sigrun had never been overly interested in nature, Thora took it as a signal that the other dwarf was done with the conversation.

As they passed into the outskirts of the Arling, Thora noticed Oghren beginning to hang back a bit, his legs moving more and more slowly. Anders hovered near, looking concerned. Thora dropped back to walk with Oghren, motioning Anders forward. The mage caught up with Anawyn, and Thora could hear the little girl giggle at some joke.

She looked at Oghren sternly. “Out with it,” she said. “What’s the problem?”

Oghren glanced at her, then away. “Nothin’,” he said sullenly.

“We’re moving as fast as we can, you know.” The speed wasn’t his issue, that much was obvious, but she hoped she could poke the problem out of him.

“Too fast, maybe,” he muttered.

“You were so anxious.”

Oghren grunted. Thora walked beside him silently for a bit, waiting. At last he grumbled, “Women.”

“What did we do this time?”

“Never know what yer thinkin’.”

“You could ask.”

Oghren glanced at her, pursing his lips in frustration. “Think Felsi’d really tell me? She’d say she was fine, and that’d be that.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it would depend how you asked. But you’re not even there yet—why are you already assuming she’ll be mad?”

“She was mad before I left. Told me I was still holdin’ onto Branka, said I needed to stop dwellin’ on the past, start livin’ the life I had.”

Thora looked at him in confusion. “But you were doing that—weren’t you?”

Oghren flushed, looking away. “I mighta … brought Branka up in a few fights. Or, ya know, most of ‘em.”

“Ah. Not good, my friend.”

“Didn’t mean it,”Oghren mumbled. “Just … wanted to make her mad.”

“Apparently it worked.”

“I missed Felsi, ya know, while we were gone. And the little nuglings. Never missed Branka that way, not even when she first took off.”

“Then say it, Oghren! Don’t hide behind your mug, or your … Oghrenness. Walk up to her, kiss her, tell her you thought about her with every step. And stop mentioning Branka.”

“Think that’ll work?” Oghren looked skeptical.

“Never know till you try,” Thora said. “But Felsi loves you. She’ll give you the benefit of the doubt if you’re trying.”

After a few moments, Oghren grunted. “Thanks, Commander. ‘Preciate it.”

“Anytime, Oghren.”

“So what are we waitin’ for? Let’s get a move on!” he shouted, forging ahead.

As the towers of the Vigil came into view, Thora found Anders hovering nervously next to her. He opened his mouth, starting to speak, several times and was on the verge of turning away, whatever it was still unsaid, when she caught his hand. “Tell me, then.”

“It’s … I— I can’t,” he said unhappily.

“Can’t tell me, or can’t something else?”

He struggled to find the words. At last he sighed. “I can’t stay.”

“What do you mean you can’t stay?” Thora stopped walking, looking up into his face. “Can’t stay at the Vigil? Can’t stay in the Grey Wardens? What?”

“Can’t stay at the Vigil.” Having said it, the dam seemed to be broken and the words came pouring out. “I was always so angry with him, because he wasn’t there for you and he wasn’t friendly with you and I couldn’t understand why you couldn’t just move on. But I’d never seen the man he is when he’s with you.” Anders took a deep breath. “I understand now what there is between you, why you couldn’t move on from that. But I can’t—can’t stay and watch, not just go on about my life at the Vigil while you and he are— I’m sorry, I should be able to, but I can’t.”

Thora’s eyes were wide and filled with tears, her hand covering her mouth. “Anders, are you sure?”

“I tried,” he said. “I thought I could handle it, but the closer we get to the Vigil, the more real it seems.”

“I’m sorry,” Thora said softly.

“No need,” he said firmly. “You told me over and over not to hope, you were very clear about it. But I couldn’t not hope. I just thought … if I was charming enough, if I was supportive enough, if I was there enough, then maybe I would be … enough.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “You have nothing to apologize for. Maybe I do. And I understand now. I wish you both well. But I’m not— Is there … anything I can do for the Wardens that doesn’t involve me staying at the Vigil?”

“Let me think about it,” Thora said slowly. “Can you stay until Anawyn’s birthday? Alistair won’t be here until then, and she’d be devastated if you weren’t there, after everything.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Have your bags packed and ready after that, then—I’ll have something for you to do.”

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. Anders, I—“ But there was nothing more to say, really. Anders nodded, smiling forgivingly at her.

Not long after, they arrived at the Vigil, the gates opening and cheers erupting from inside as the inhabitants recognized the arriving party. Anawyn ran to hug Dennis, her tutor. The normally reserved mage hugged her back, smiling from ear to ear. Thora watched her daughter with pleasure, before her attention was caught by the red-headed dwarven child hurtling past. 

“DA!!!” screamed Rog, and his sister, equally loud, wasn’t far behind. Felsi stood waiting, her heart shining in her eyes, watching for Oghren. The gruff warrior dropped his weapon to the ground, opening his arms and wrapping them tightly around the two little bundles who clung to his beard, climbing up and over him and balancing themselves on his shoulders. He looked around, and then he saw the red-headed woman who awaited him, her eyes eager. 

“Felsi!” he shouted. His hands clamped down on the little bodies on his shoulders as he moved toward her, and then the little ones slid off and Felsi was in his arms. As expected, their kiss was graphic and over the top. What Thora had not expected was that it would bring tears to her eyes. If Felsi had any doubts, she hoped this reunion would set them to rest.

Anders watched the couple embrace, as well. His eyes flicked to Thora, and he sighed. He knew now that he had never had a chance with her, and he didn’t blame her for his blind optimism … but just once he wanted to see a woman look at him the way Thora looked at Alistair, or Felsi looked at Oghren. He turned away, casually greeting some of the other Wardens and a group of the soldiers, including the tall, dark-haired Captain Maverlies. His eyes traveled over Maverlies briefly, and he completely missed the way her face brightened when he spoke to her.

The Commander, however, didn’t.


	80. Kiss Me

Anawyn hovered at the entrance to the keep, bouncing up and down on her toes. “Mother!” she called over her shoulder. “When did they say they’d get here?”

“Soon,” Thora said impatiently, shooting an apologetic smile at Captain Maverlies for the interruption of their conversation. “For the last time, Anawyn, your father will be arriving this evening, and Morrigan’s message indicated they would be here by tomorrow. Can’t you just be pa—“

Her words were cut off by a shriek from Anawyn, who then took to her heels and fairly flew down the road toward the approaching figure. She lost some momentum when it became clear there was only one person on the road, and by the time she’d reached Xandros, she’d slowed to a walk and her mouth was turned down. “Couldn’t they come?” she asked without preamble.

Xandros grinned, his green eyes twinkling. “Good to see you, too, little one. I’m afraid there were … complications,” he said.

Anawyn’s head drooped. “Oh,” she said despondently, scuffing the toe of her boot in the dirt. A bright red songbird swooped out of the trees, landing on Anawyn’s shoulder briefly before fluttering to the ground. As Anawyn watched, it began to change shape until her sister stood there, giggling. “Cybele!” Anawyn threw her arms around the other girl’s shoulders, and the two of them clung together, laughing and crying.

A wolf loped out of the copse of trees, turning smoothly to Morrigan as it reached them. “Childish foolishness,” she murmured, but with affection. “I cannot believe I allowed her to talk me into such a thing.”

“You have to admit, Mother, she was really surprised.” Cybele and Anawyn turned, arm in arm, to walk toward the Vigil.

“You do that so much better than you used to,” Anawyn said to her sister. “You must have been practicing.”

“Mother’s a lot better teacher than Granny,” Cybele said.

Morrigan heard the compliment, a rare smile crossing her face at the unexpected praise, and Xandros squeezed the mage’s hand proudly.

Thora met them at the entrance to the keep. Cybele gave her a shy curtsy, and Thora nodded gravely at the little girl. “Cybele, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here.” Cybele looked up, wide-eyed, and Thora smiled. “I thought Anawyn was going to burst while waiting, she was so excited.”

Anawyn giggled. “Come on, Cybele, let me introduce you to Oghren’s little kids.” She tugged on Cybele’s hand and the two girls ran off.

“Thora.” Morrigan looked uncomfortable. “We do not need to greet each other effusively and with … hugging, do we?”

Thora’s eyebrows flew up. “Certainly not! A simple hello should do nicely.”

“Excellent,” Morrigan said in relief. “Hello.”

“Hello. And Xandros, welcome back,” Thora said, looking him over closely. “Family life seems to agree with you.”

Morrigan actually blushed, and Xandros smiled shyly. “It does, at that, Commander. Would it be possible for me to take a more extended leave?”

“We need you, Xandros,” Thora said gravely. At his crestfallen look, she sighed. “I’ll give it some thought. Far be it from me to keep two people apart who want to be together. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Thank you, Commander,” the elf said.

“Don’t thank me yet—I still have to figure out what to do with you.” The three of them walked into the Vigil. Anawyn and Cybele had clearly found Felsi’s kitchen—they were munching on giant cookies and chasing little Aeda and Rog around the courtyard.

Despite her calm words to Anawyn, Thora hadn’t budged from the courtyard all day, every sense alert as she waited for the King’s party to arrive. She wanted to bounce up and down and run to the gate and ask everyone around what time it was, and only a lifetime of maintaining her dignity kept her from being just as impatient as her daughter. After having Alistair with her constantly for months, adjusting to living her daily life without him in it, even if only temporarily, had been difficult. The steady stream of notes from him—sweet, loving, sexy, occasionally downright pornographic—and writing her own in return had helped, but still, she ached to see him again. The days hadn’t gone by nearly fast enough, despite the mountain of work that had been waiting for her when she got back to the Vigil.

Thora had been reduced to pulling weeds from between the cobblestones, the barest possible pretext for remaining in the courtyard, before she heard the distant rumble of hoofbeats. Straightening, she looked down the road, her heart already pounding with anticipation.

The King’s horse was in the lead, far outpacing those of his companions. As he drew closer, Thora could feel the warmth in her veins, the unmistakable tingle in her blood that meant Alistair, and it was as much as she could do to stand still and wait. Soon she could make out the small brown-haired figure seated in front of Alistair on the horse, and then see the wide grin on Duncan’s face as the horse galloped down the road. 

Alistair pulled up in the courtyard, his eyes on Thora. He swung down from the horse, reaching for her eagerly, but an imperious little voice called to him. “Down, Daddy!”

“Sorry,” Alistair said. He tossed a grin at Thora before gently helping Duncan down. Once the little boy was safely on the ground, Alistair turned to Thora, his eyes lighting with happiness as he held her hand. Before he could take her in his arms, an impatient little girl came racing across the courtyard, throwing herself into them. “Father!” Anawyn said, hugging him tight. 

“Little love,” Alistair laughed, lifting Anawyn high in the air. “Such patience and ladylike demeanor. Can this be my girl?” He looked her over ostentatiously. “No, clearly not, since I think you’ve grown about a foot in the last month. Wasn’t my girl about this tall?” He held his hands a little way apart, and Anawyn slapped at them, giggling. 

“You know how tall I am.” She squirmed until he put her down. Taking Alistair’s hand in hers, she led him across the courtyard where Cybele was hanging shyly back. “Cybele’s here, Father!” 

Alistair and Cybele smiled nervously at each other. “Dear girl,” he said. “Have you been well?”

“Yes, Father.”

He gave her a hug, careful at first, then firm and loving as she threw her arms around his neck. “It’s so good to see you,” he whispered into her black hair. “And now, let me introduce you to someone.” Alistair put Cybele down, and led Duncan forward. “Duncan, this is Cybele. She’s your other sister, the one I told you about, remember?”

Duncan nodded. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Cybele said.

“Come have cookies!” Anawyn said, taking Duncan by the hand. He shot a glance over his shoulder at his father, but Alistair was smiling, so Duncan followed his sisters.

“I hope they’re not too overwhelming for him,” Thora said, watching the little boy between the two tall girls.

“They’ll be just what he needs. No monarch should be an only child,” Alistair grinned. “Too spoiled.” His smile dimmed a bit, thinking of Cailan. But nothing could dampen the joy of this homecoming. He turned to Thora, his hands sliding over her shoulders and up her neck to cup her jaw as he leaned down.

Thora’s eyes fluttered closed, only to spring wide open again as hoofbeats thundered up to them. She looked up to see the rest of Alistair’s party finally entering the courtyard. 

“Majesty,” Jens said, swinging himself down from the giant draft horse he rode. “I can’t guard if I can’t keep up.”

“Sorry, Jens,” Alistair said, grinning sheepishly.

“JENS!” Sigrun shouted, emerging from the forge where she’d been pestering Master Wade with questions as her excuse not to leave the courtyard. The big man turned toward the dwarf, a smile lighting his face as he lifted her off her feet in a bear hug. 

“Sigrun, can you lead Jens and the others to the quarters set aside for them?” Thora asked once Sigrun’s feet were back on the ground. 

“Aye, Commander,” the other dwarf said cheerfully. 

At last the courtyard was mostly cleared. Thora took Alistair’s hand. “Welcome to the Vigil,” she said.

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “You call that a welcome?”

“Anything else keeps getting interrupted,” she said.

“We’ll just see about that.” And he bent toward her again, his eyes dark and warm. His lips made contact with hers, and Thora heard a whimper, possibly from herself, as her mouth opened for him.

“AHEM.” 

Tearing herself away with reluctance, Thora looked at Oghren, who was grinning broadly at them. “What is it that you want, my former Second?” she asked testily.

“The cook wants to know if you’re ready for dinner to be served. And ya know Wardens when their meals’re late.” Oghren waggled his eyebrows at them. 

“Dinner isn’t scheduled for another hour, Oghren,” Thora said. “How would you like it if I put you on guard duty on one of Felsi’s special costume nights?”

Oghren’s eyes flew open. “How do you know about that?” he asked.

Thora smiled at him. “I’m the Commander,” she said.

“She’ll do it, too, Oghren,” Alistair said. The dwarf made a strangled noise, then turned tail and left the courtyard.

“’Special costume nights’?” Alistair asked when Oghren was gone.

Thora shrugged. “I took a shot in the dark.”

Alistair drew her closer, chuckling. “You are amazing,” he said. He tipped her chin up with his fingers and kissed her deeply, until she was clutching at his arms to hold herself up and his own knees were quivering. He pulled back, breathing heavily, and looked down at her lovely passion-flushed face. “Now _that’s_ what I call a welcome.”


	81. The Party Camp

The following day was the long-awaited celebration of Anawyn’s ninth birthday. Thora had restrained herself as much as she could, but given the number of times over the past six months she had feared Anawyn would never see another birthday she couldn’t help going overboard just a little bit. So she had organized a large fair, open to the whole city, with traveling minstrels and jugglers and puppeteers and games and contests and all sorts of food.

Thora found Oghren at a food stall, working his way through a gigantic sausage. He smacked her on the back. “I’ll say this for ya, Thora—you know how to throw a sodding party!” He swallowed a giant mouthful of sausage in a single gulp and washed it down with a tankard full of ale.

“How goes it, my friend? Has your homecoming been everything you hoped for?” Thora asked.

Oghren chortled. “Felsi’s hot as a soddin’ volcano. She—“

“That is not what I meant, and you know it. Save the act for someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

“Aw, Thora.” He sighed. “All right. I told ‘er what you said to say, that I missed ‘er and I like ‘er a lot better’n I did Branka.”

“And?”

“She laughed. Then she kissed me an’ told me never to go away again.”

“Sounds like a success, then.”

“Soddin’ Stone!” Oghren downed another tankard full. “Ya know, sometimes ya know what yer talkin’ ‘bout, girlie.” His pigtailed daughter ran by and Oghren wandered after her, leaving Thora to shake her head. No one else ever called her ‘girlie’ or even thought about it. For all his eccentricities, she didn’t know what she’d do without him.

As the day drew on, the frenetic pace of activity slowed—people began to trickle back to their homes. Shortly there would be a feast for the Grey Wardens and selected guests. Thora spent most of the later hours of the afternoon trying to corral the two girls, who had overdone it on the caramel apples and the rock candy and were rushing around burning off all their sugary energy. In contrast, Duncan’s behavior was much more subdued—all he did was challenge every person in armor to a duel with the wooden sword Jens had made for him. Several of them even obliged the little boy, and great was the imaginary carnage dealt by the little Prince with his wooden sword. Thora could see why Alistair thought having sisters would be good for the boy—Anawyn would never let Duncan win even a play duel, but who other than a sister could get away with beating Ferelden’s only Prince?

Once the children were all inside the keep being washed and dressed for the feast, Thora took a moment on a garden bench in the twilight to relax. Alistair had been surrounded by guards and citizens all day, a choice they had made together. It was good for the people to see that the King was back amongst them, his same charming self. Still, she looked forward to sitting down next to him at the feast … and even more to bringing him back to her room again afterward. The previous night might have been chilly outside, but with Alistair in her bed it had been hot as summer. 

Thora heard a murmuring sound from not far away—clearly she wasn’t the only one enjoying the waning of this crisp fall day. A man’s voice followed the murmur. “You’ve made me the happiest man in Thedas today. I swear to devote the rest of my life to your pleasure.” Ser Perth, Thora thought. She should probably move, but she was intensely curious whether he was saying what she thought he was saying. She stayed where she was, listening for Leliana’s voice.

“Are you sure this is what you want? You know I have not always been what most men would want. My past—“

“I know everything I need to know about your past. I know you, Leliana.” Perth’s voice was impatient, but still retained the gentleness that was such a part of him. “We’ve danced around each other for too long. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I don’t want to waste any more time.”

“Oh, Perth.” It sounded as though Leliana burst into tears. Now Thora did get up. She was smiling as she left the garden, glad that Perth had finally overcome the heavy weight of Leliana’s guilt. Her friend deserved some happiness at last.

Thora went into the keep, where the entry hall was filled with people waiting for the great room to open, speculating on what surprise awaited them inside. She found Alistair standing near the doors and joined him. His arm slid naturally around her shoulders, pulling her close to him—the simple gesture, forbidden for so long, made her want to simultaneously laugh and cry. Instead, she leaned against him, heaving a little sigh of contentment. They stood that way for a moment before Duncan arrived, sword grandly held in front of him. Jens was behind the boy, with Sigrun chattering at his side. Duncan bowed before Thora, who clasped her arm across her chest and returned the greeting. “Commander, we formally thank you for inviting us to our royal sister’s birthday celebrations,” the little boy said loftily.

“Prince Duncan, thank you for coming. I am honored,” Thora said, her mouth twitching in amusement.

Alistair shook his head. “Who taught you to talk that way?” he asked his son.

“Mama.”

Thora and Alistair exchanged a look. Oghren’s little Rog came up to Duncan, poking at the wooden sword, and the two boys ran off together. “What does he think about his mother being gone?” Thora asked when Duncan was out of earshot.

Alistair shrugged. “He knows she’s away on a trip, that she and I aren’t going to be married anymore. He doesn’t understand, really, but I don’t think he thinks about it that much. She was never involved in his life on a day-to-day basis, so there hasn’t been a lot of change in his world.”

“And … Dorothea?”

“She arrived safely in Nevarra.” He took Thora’s chin in his hand and looked deep into her eyes. “She’s gone, love. I am all yours, from now on. I promise.”

How many nights, alone in her bedroom, had she dreamed of hearing him say those words? Thora wished with all her heart that she truly believed it, but how could she? He was the King—sooner or later the country would demand a Queen. She smiled, hoping he wouldn’t see the lingering doubt in her eyes, and was relieved when she heard Sigrun’s cheery voice.

“And then he said, ‘Where’d the nug go?’” When Jens failed to give her the response she was looking for, she said it again. “Get it? ‘Where’d the nug go?’” The big man shook his head blankly, and Sigrun sighed. “Guess you had to be there. You ever hear that one, Commander? About the nug and the Shaper?”

Thora smiled. It was an old joke, but very dwarven. “That’s a good one.”

“Can you explain it to the big guy here?”

“I doubt it. Get Oghren to try, though.”

“You think he can tell it right?”

“Oh, definitely not, but won’t it be fun to watch him try?” Thora and Sigrun both laughed. Thora looked up into Jens’s face with its good-natured smile. “Alistair tells me he’s given you leave to go visit your family, Jens. Do you— Have you heard from them at all?”

He nodded. “One of my sisters wrote in response to my last letter. They’re all well, and are looking forward to seeing me.” He ducked his head shyly, looking at Alistair. “His Majesty is incredibly generous.”

“You’ve earned everything I’ve done for you and far more,” Alistair said.

“You both have,” Thora said. “Whenever Jens is ready, let me know, and you’re free to join him,” she said to Sigrun. “Maybe we can scare up some gifts to bring along.”

Sigrun grinned. “Thanks, Commander. What do you think they’d need, Jens?”

“That’s not necessary—“ Jens began, but Sigrun tugged on his hand. 

“Don’t be silly, she’ll do it if she wants to. Let’s make a list,” she said, and Jens cast a grateful smile at Alistair and Thora over his shoulder as Sigrun dragged him off, still talking.

“Mother!” Anawyn’s voice cut through the babble. “You haven’t let them see, have you?” She made her way toward her parents, Cybele following in her wake. 

“No, you told me not to. Of course, I thought you’d be down here sooner.”

“Some of these Wardens were about to eat through their armor, we’re all so hungry,” Alistair put in, smiling fondly at his girls. “What’s the wait for, anyway?”

Anawyn giggled. “The wait was for this.” She nodded to Varel, who gave her an indulgent smile and then opened the doors into the keep’s great room.

Inside, all the tables had been pushed up against the walls, and the entire room was arranged as a campsite, with tents in various locations and carefully maintained campfires. Alistair gently drew his fingers through Thora’s hair, and she looked up at him. “Was this your idea?” he asked.

“No, it was hers. If it was my idea, there would only be one tent, and it would be in my bedroom,” she replied, winking at him, enjoying his swift, indrawn breath and the sleepy smile that spread across his face.

“This was your daughter’s idea of a feast?” Morrigan came up next to them, gazing across the room with one eyebrow arched. “I cannot say much for her taste—‘twould be much nicer to sit in a chair and eat food that does not look as though Alistair prepared it.”

“When it’s your birthday, maybe you can pick, then,” Alistair shot back.

“If the two of you can’t be nice, then keep quiet,” Thora said. “I had enough of your sniping during the Blight to last me a lifetime. A nontainted lifetime.”

“Sorry,” Alistair muttered.

Morrigan inclined her head. It wasn’t an apology, but at least it wasn’t an insult. Thora sighed. “I’ll be over there, if you want to get it out of your systems.”   
She drifted across the room and sat down on a log next to Xandros. The elf was filling his plate with biscuits and stew. When he saw the Commander, he filled a plate for her, as well. Thora accepted it with thanks, looking over at Alistair and Morrigan, both of whom radiated discomfort at being in such close proximity to each other.

Left alone, Alistair and Morrigan stood in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Then, he said, tentatively, “Cybele looks well.”

“She is growing quickly,” Morrigan agreed. “The trip with Flemeth, unpleasant though it was, did improve the child’s skill. And your other daughter has been an excellent influence—Cybele is much less timid.”

“Anawyn does have that effect,” Alistair said. He looked over at the girls, who were pelting Duncan with biscuits. To Alistair’s relief, Duncan was taking it in good spirit, throwing the biscuits right back. Soon it devolved into a game to see who could catch the most biscuit in their mouth. “I, um, wanted to ask you … can we work out an arrangement for me to see Cybele?”

“That is not as easy as it sounds,” Morrigan said sharply.

“I know. I can’t acknowledge her—not without endangering you, and her, and Duncan’s accession. It would be a big mess, politically.”

“Have you realized that all on your own?” Morrigan sounded surprised, and Alistair sighed.

“Do you want to insult me all night, Morrigan, or can we have an actual discussion?”

“Let me consider those options.” She pretended to think about that for a moment, and Alistair was startled to realize she was actually teasing him. He found it disturbing. 

“I’d like to … come visit occasionally. It seems safest that way, and I can bring Duncan and Anawyn, as well. It will be good for all of them to grow up together.” He thought of Cailan again, what it  
might have been like to grow up knowing and being known by his brother. “Please, Morrigan?”

Her golden eyes swept over the man at her side, thinking what a change the years had made in him. “That sounds acceptable.”

Morrigan was moving off in response to a beckoning gesture from Xandros when Alistair’s voice stopped her. 

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Can you lend me Cybele for the day tomorrow? I have an … errand to run, and I want to bring the children along.”

“I can see no reason not to. You will, of course, be careful.”

He bit back the sarcastic response that came automatically to his lips. “Of course.”

At the campfire, Thora watched as Morrigan walked away from a perturbed-seeming Alistair. “You really enjoy her company, Xandros?”

He looked at her in surprise, and Thora sighed.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. It’s just … Well, hopefully you see a different side than the rest of us. Look, I suppose I can get someone else to be liaison to Denerim—Sigrun might like the job—but the Wardens can’t just let people go off and live in the forests whenever they want to. We have a compound for a reason.”

Xandros watched her carefully, waiting.

“And yes, I see why Morrigan wouldn’t want to come to the compound, and why bringing Cybele here for long periods of time is a bad idea. I’ve had occasion to learn a thing or two about politics in my life, you know,” she said tartly.

The elf shrugged in a ‘go on’ sort of gesture. 

“Bottom line: you can’t leave the Vigil entirely. Let’s say you can have an annual leave of four months’ duration, and you can spend another four months a year traveling the country as a recruiter, during which time you are of course free to have Morrigan and Cybele with you. The other four months, you have to be here. Acceptable?”

He nodded, a small smile crossing his face. “Thank you, Commander.”

“It’s my pleasure, Xandros.” Thora thought it would be nice to have someone keeping an eye on Morrigan, but she kept that thought to herself. As Morrigan approached the fire, Thora excused herself from the pair. She saw Alistair with the children, joining in the midst of the biscuit battle. And at the back of the room Anders, talking with Captain Maverlies. Anders looked bored, his attention clearly not on the conversation. Thora suspected that with Anders only half-interested and Maverlies afraid to let him see how much she cared for him it was probably a fairly dull conversation. She crossed the room to join them.

“Commander, what a clever idea Anawyn had,” Maverlies enthused.

“Indeed. I would think she’d have had enough camping during this trip, but apparently not.” Thora smiled at the tall soldier, then looked at Anders. “You’ll be relieved to know I’ve come up with a task that will give you that time away you were asking for.”

“You have?”

She nodded. “Mistress Woolsey feels she’s spent enough years bent over the account books here at the Vigil. She’d like to return to Weisshaupt, and I would like you to accompany her.”

“To Weisshaupt?!” Anders stared at her in surprise. “You want me to go all the way to the Anderfels?”

“Anders in the Anderfels. What could be more perfect?” Thora grinned up at him, and Captain Maverlies, standing with them, couldn’t restrain a snicker.

“Oh, very funny,” he said. “Personally, I’d been thinking more along the lines of a vacation, somewhere warm, where I could impress the ladies with my magic fingers.” He wiggled his fingers and his eyebrows naughtily. His eyes on Thora, he didn’t see Maverlies watching his hands, or the way her ears turned pink as she gazed.

Thora shook her head. “Sadly, the Grey Wardens don’t have any tasks of that nature. What we do need is someone to escort Mistress Woolsey to Weisshaupt. And for someone with some fighting skill to go along. Captain Maverlies, I’d like you to accompany Anders to Weisshaupt and back, please. There is a missive I would like you to carry, and there are few others I would trust with it.” 

Maverlies’ eyes brightened. She glanced quickly at Anders and then looked away. “As you say, Commander,” she said briefly.

“Excellent.” Watching Anders’ disappointed face and Maverlies’ courageous attempt to look unmoved by the news, Thora could barely repress a smirk. “Talk to me tomorrow and I’ll go over the details. I think you should plan to start your journey in about three days’ time.”

“Very well, Commander.” Maverlies nodded briskly.

“Yes, Commander,” Anders sighed.

Thora moved away from the pair just as the cook wheeled in a cart bearing the cake. Soon the entire hall was singing the traditional unmelodic Ferelden birthday song to Anawyn. The giant chocolate cake was reduced to crumbs in a remarkably short period of time. Most of the Wardens dispersed after that, leaving a small group lounging about the central tent. Anawyn curled up between her parents. 

“Has it been a successful birthday?” Thora asked. Anawyn nodded, a huge yawn preventing her from responding more fully. “And you’re okay with a giant carnival and a feast in place of gifts?” This nod was a bit less enthusiastic—it had been a fairly hot topic of debate between Thora and her daughter—but equally sleepy. 

“Well, I have a bit of a surprise,” Alistair said. His eyes twinkled at Anawyn. “I’ll be taking you and Cybele and Duncan on a special trip tomorrow, so be up bright and early. And there might be gifts, if you behave.” He cast a sheepish look at Thora as Anawyn jumped up and hugged him, hard. 

“I’ll go to bed right now. You’re the best father EVER! Come on, Cybele!” She dragged her sister away to bed. Once the guest of honor had departed, the rest of the party dispersed as well, until Alistair and Thora were left together in the quiet room with only a few of the kitchen servants still moving about.

“Where are you taking them?” Thora asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Alistair said mysteriously, his eyes twinkling.

“I would, actually. I could make you tell me,” she purred.

“I’d like to see you try.”

She quivered as if he had stroked her intimately. “Take me upstairs then,” she said breathlessly. “Right now.”

“Your desire is my command.”


	82. The Village of Dwarves

“So where did you say you were taking the children today?” Thora stretched languidly, hoping to tempt Alistair back into bed. 

“I believe I refused to tell you. Many, many times.” He chuckled, keeping his gaze firmly on the mirror while he shaved. He knew if he turned around to look at her beautiful body stretched white and naked in the bed, he’d never be able to hold out, and he had places to be.

Thora sat up. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s a secret,” he said. 

“You can’t keep secrets. You might as well just tell me now, because you know you’ll crack eventually.”

He laughed, leaning over to kiss her. “I am not telling you, and I am not getting back in bed, no matter how tempting you are,” he whispered, keeping his hands firmly clenched to keep from touching her. “So you might as well get up and get your day started.”

She threw a pillow at him as he left the room. “You’re no fun!”

Alistair was whistling as he came into the great room, still set up with the tents. He filled his plate with eggs and bacon, then joined Anawyn near her tent. “Are you ready, little love?”

“Ready for what, Father?”

He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. “Should I tell you?” he asked, studying her as if he was really thinking about it.

“Yes! Yes, you should.”

He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t be fair. You’ll just have to wait.”

“No! Please, Father? Just tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“Trust me, if your mother couldn’t worm the secret out of me, neither can you. And she tried really hard.” 

Anawyn subsided, muttering under her breath. 

Cybele joined them a few minutes later, looking nervous but happy. “Mother says I get to go along today. Where are we going?”

“Don’t even try,” Anawyn moaned. “He’s a big meanie.” But she looked sideways at Alistair, speculatively, as if wondering if he would tell the dark-haired girl what he hadn’t told her.

“Yes, I am,” Alistair said, feeling quite pleased with himself. “Have either of you seen Duncan? We should be setting off shortly, or we’ll be late.”

“Late for what?” Anawyn jumped up and down on the balls of her feet. “Late for what, Father?”

Maker, it was like having a whirling dervish spin around him, Alistair thought, watching his oldest child’s eagerness. 

Finally, Jens brought Duncan into the room. “My son, where have you been?” Alistair asked sternly. “I told you to be ready to go first thing this morning. What have you been doing?” He crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

Duncan studied the ground. “I was … misbehaving, ser. I made Jens chase me, and I didn’t want to get dressed in my riding leathers.” He looked up through his beautiful long eyelashes at his father. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to make us late.”

Alistair frowned for another long second, then he cracked, smiling and lifting the little boy up. “All right, then, Duncan, no harm done. Let’s be off,” he said, striding toward the door with the little boy on his shoulders. The girls followed him, and Jens followed them all. At the door, Alistair turned. “Jens, it’s all right. I’ll take them.”

The big man shook his head slowly, his eyes reproachful. 

“Fine, then,” Alistair said, deciding that taking an extra adult along was the wisest course of action, even if it hadn’t been in his plan for the day. “Come along. But just you!” he said, spying Sigrun lurking nearby ready to follow.

In a fair amount of time, the little party was mounted and moving out of the keep, with Alistair in the lead. 

A ways out from the keep, Alistair turned to see Anawyn’s horse pulling level with his. “Father!” she shouted. “Are we going to Kal’Hirol? That’s the big surprise?” She stuck her bottom lip out in a classic pout. “I’ve been to Kal’Hirol.”

“Yes, but your brother and sister have not,” Alistair said. “Perhaps you could be gracious for their sake.” Anawyn looked away, refusing to bend. “Besides,” Alistair added, “I didn’t say the destination was the surprise.” 

“Are we getting something there? Presents?!”

“In a manner of speaking.” Alistair grinned, spurring his horse forward. 

They tied the horses outside the entrance to Kal’Hirol. The guards at the doors bowed to Alistair. “Your Majesty, King Gorim told us to expect your arrival. Welcome to Kal’Hirol.”

“Thank you.” Alistair and Anawyn returned the dwarves’ salute, and after a moment Cybele and Duncan followed suit. Then Alistair took Duncan and Cybele by the hands, leading them through the doors and inside. Cybele’s hand was cold in his, and he belatedly remembered her fear of dwarves. He leaned over. “You going to be all right, little one?”

“Yes, Father,” she whispered, but she looked doubtful.

“I’ll be with you, and so will Anawyn, and you know none of these dwarves will hurt you, right?”

Cybele nodded, squeezing his hand.

The dwarven city was bustling. Anawyn strode ahead confidently, having been here a number of times, but the other two clung to their father, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people and the volume of sound around them.

“Father, where are we going?” Anawyn called over her shoulder.

“We’re meeting some old friends,” Alistair said. “If you’ll wait for the rest of us, I suspect we’ll find them pretty easily.”

“Sorry, Father,” she said, dropping back to walk with the rest of the party.

As they walked, Anawyn realized that a dwarf with blond curls was walking next to her, keeping pace with the little party. As she looked at him more closely, she recognized him as the dwarf she’d met with Granny, who had given her the ring that Cybele still wore, and who had appeared on the battlefield when they fought Granny. “You!” she said. “You’re here!”

He grinned widely at her. “Hello, lady.”

“Sandal!” Alistair smiled down at him. “I told them you’d find us. You remember Anawyn? And Cybele? And this is Duncan. Duncan, this is Sandal. He’s been—a very good friend of mine for a long time.”

Still grinning, the dwarf bowed to the King, gesturing to the party to follow him. He led them to a cart parked near a wall. Bodahn looked up as they approached, a smile crossing his face. “Your Majesty! I thought the boy would find you. And the young Prince, as well as the young ladies we met on the road. Glad to see you well, miss,” he said to Anawyn. “I understand you’ve just celebrated your birthday.”

“Yes, ser,” she said. 

“Well, then, perhaps you’d like … this.” He reached into a chest and drew forth a staff, carved in an intricate pattern of vines and flowers. “I understand you have some talents in this area.”

“Oh, ser!” Anawyn reached out, touching the wood reverently. “That’s too—I really can’t accept something so nice.”

“Of course you can,” Bodahn said. “The boy enchanted it for you himself. Says it won’t work for anyone else.”

Bobbing his head in agreement, Sandal pushed the staff into her hand. 

“Thank you very much,” Anawyn said.

Bodahn turned to Cybele, who clung shyly to Alistair’s side. “I understand your birthday is approaching as well, miss.”

She nodded, taking a hesitant step forward. She remembered these dwarves. Bodahn produced another staff, this one with images of small forest animals carved into it.

“Oh, ser,” she breathed. “Thank you, ser.”

“It was our pleasure,” Bodahn said kindly. “And for you, young Prince.” He produced for Duncan a wooden shield with the Theirin crest carved into it. 

Duncan bowed deeply to the two dwarves. “Thank you, ser,” he said in his grand manner.

Bodahn laughed heartily. He turned to Alistair. “And you, ser. I have the item you came for. A very great pleasure it was to carry it for you, too.” Bodahn reached into his pocket and drew out a small box, handing it to Alistair. The King opened it quickly, and he smiled down at the dwarf. 

“Thank you, Bodahn. Was it too much trouble?”

“Oh, no, ser. The boy added some special touches to it, too. Hope you don’t mind.”

“If Sandal had his hands on it, I can only thank him for his help. I don’t suppose he told you what it does?”

“Happy!” Sandal said. “Enchantment!”

“Can’t get any better than that, then,” Alistair said.

“There’s a note, as well, sire,” Bodahn said, bringing forth a sealed parchment scroll. “May I be the first to wish you felicitations?”

“Not yet, Bodahn,” Alistair said, laughing. “I haven’t had the answer yet.”

Anawyn was watching this exchange eagerly, wondering what they were talking about. Alistair caught her eager gaze. “Patience, little love. I’ll explain later,” he said. “Bodahn, Sandal, I am, as always, in your debt.”

“Sire, if you’ll recall, ‘twas you and the Commander who saved our lives back in Lothering. We’d have been darkspawn food these ten years without you,” Bodahn said. 

“Still …”

“Daddy saved you from the darkspawn?” Duncan put in, pushing forward. “Can you tell me all about it?”

“Well, once upon a time, before the Blight, me and the boy were selling our wares in a town called Lothering. Darkspawn had set upon us, and we thought we were goners. Then we saw the Commander—the Grey Warden, as she was then—“

“My father was the Grey Warden,” Duncan said proudly. “My mother told me how he saved Ferelden.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but your father was one of two Grey Wardens. The Commander was with him all the way through the Blight. They saved Ferelden together.” Bodahn looked steadily into Duncan’s eyes. “I traveled along with them for most o’ the Blight, saw a lot of what they did with my own eyes. They were a good combination, the Commander and the King.”

Alistair had tried to tell Duncan these stories, as well, but the boy seemed more taken with the story as he heard it from Bodahn.

“Then what happened?” Duncan asked. “Did the Commander and my father kill the darkspawn?”

“They did indeed. The lady Morrigan helped them, as did Miss Leliana.” Bodahn smiled at Cybele. “Those were exciting times, but these are happy ones, and it’s thanks to all of them that they are.” He looked up at Alistair, bowing. “Good luck to you, sire.”

“Thank you, Bodahn. Sandal. We’ll see you soon, I hope.”

With smiles and waves, they took their leave of the two merchants. Alistair took the children to lunch at the Nug’s Head, a relatively tame tavern by dwarven standards, and then bought them each gifts—Duncan got a golem doll, Anawyn a stuffed nug, and Cybele a toy spider. Clutching their gifts, they walked with their father through the halls of Kal’Hirol and then out into the late afternoon sunshine.

They rode a little way back toward the Vigil. When its towers appeared in the distance, Alistair reined his horse in, dismounting. The children did the same, and he sat down on a log a little way off the road, motioning for them all to sit with him. “Thank you all for coming with me today,” he said, smiling down at the three little faces. Jens stood back a way, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on them all. Alistair continued, “Part of the fun of the day was my first opportunity to spend time with all three of you. I hope we can have a lot more days like this—I am so proud of all of you.” He stopped for a moment, clearing his throat against the lump in it, not wanting to cry in front of them. “There was another reason I brought you all along, however. Today … Bodahn brought me a special gift, a gift I intend to give to the Commander—to Thora.” The three of them looked up at him expectantly, and he brought out the little box, revealing the ring that lay inside.

“A ring?” Duncan looked bored and disappointed.

“Is it enchanted?” Cybele asked curiously.

“Father? Is that what I think it is?” Anawyn whispered, blinking as tears filled her eyes.

“Yes, little love. When I give Thora this ring,” he said to them all, “I intend to ask her to marry me. But I wanted to ask the three of you first, for your permission.” He looked at Duncan as he said it, worried about the little boy’s reaction. He’d tried to prepare him for this. 

Anawyn shrieked, throwing her arms around Alistair’s neck. 

Cybele smiled. “I think that sounds nice,” she said. “She’s … much nicer than I would have expected, after all my dreams.”

Duncan tilted his head to the side, studying his father. “Why, Daddy?” he asked.

Alistair hadn’t exactly prepared himself to answer a question that blunt. “Well, because … because I’ve loved her for a long time, and I want to spend my life with her. Is … that okay?” he asked his son.

“And we’re going to live with her? And Anawyn?”

“Right. Part of the time here and part of the time in Denerim.”

Anawyn hadn’t heard that part of it before. She shrieked again, directly in Alistair’s ear.

“Do I get my own rooms in the Vigil, just like at home?” Duncan asked.

“Of course,” Alistair answered.

“And Jens will come with us.”

“He will.”

“Well … okay,” Duncan said finally. 

“Okay,” Alistair repeated. “Now, promise me you won’t say anything about this. To anyone. Until I say it’s okay. Promise?”

“Promise,” three voices repeated dutifully.

“Promise,” came Jens’s deep voice from behind them. Alistair looked up and met the big man’s eyes, and Jens nodded slowly in approval.

“All right, then. Thanks for a great day,” Alistair said to the children. “Who’s ready for dinner?”

Warden appetites and children’s appetites were clearly not that different from each other, he reflected, watching them all scramble to their feet. While Jens helped the children onto their horses, Alistair unrolled the scroll Bodahn had given him.

_Alistair:_  
It was a pleasure carrying out this commission for you. I wish you luck in the proposing—we both know how stubborn she can be. I hope you are successful. I can think of no one who is as worthy of her as you are. My blessings on you both.  
Gorim 

Alistair was filled with emotion. He knew that if it had been him in Gorim’s shoes, and Gorim in his, he could never have watched her marry someone else with anything approaching Gorim’s grace and generosity, and his heart went out to the strong man who had loved her so hopelessly all these years.

His heart pounded and he felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. Much as he loved her, much as he knew she loved him, her responses were always unpredictable. Would she say yes?


	83. Now I Have Everything

It was two weeks after Alistair’s visit to Kal’Hirol with the children. Cybele had returned to the forest with Morrigan and Xandros, following a small family party to celebrate her birthday (a mite early, but no one complained about that. Certainly not Cybele!). Promises of visits in the spring had been exchanged between Alistair and Morrigan, and the two little girls had clung together, crying, clearly feeling that spring was a lifetime away.

Anders and Captain Maverlies had left to take Woolsey back to Weisshaupt. Thora hoped her dear friend would find happiness along the way, and that Maverlies’ pride and adherence to duty would bend enough for Anders to see how the Captain felt about him. 

Thora and Alistair and the children were adjusting to the new routines fairly well. Deciding how to divide their time between palace and keep was going to be a continued challenge, that much was obvious. They’d spent just over a week together at the Vigil before Alistair was called back to the capitol. Thora and the children had accompanied him to the city, and Oghren was in charge at the Vigil, a new seriousness in his demeanor. The children found adjusting to life as a family somewhat more comfortable now that they were in Denerim—Duncan was happier being able to play lord of the manor and show his sister around than he had been trying to find his way around the Vigil, and Anawyn was excited to be allowed to visit the city and the palace after so many years of pining to be able to go. Thora had brought piles of overdue paperwork along and relished the quiet days while Alistair worked, almost as much as she enjoyed watching him be the King he had become.

But this, she reflected, this just sitting here quietly with him, was the best part. The nighttimes, when the children were in bed, as Alistair worked at his desk and Thora lounged in a chair by the fire, reading or working; the simple togetherness they had been denied for so long.

She turned in the chair so that her back was against one arm, her legs dangling over the other, and flipped a page in her book. It was Brother Genitivi’s latest, The Temple of Andraste: An Archaeological History. He’d certainly found a lot to say about a temple he hadn’t even been able to explore, Thora thought. This was at least the sixth book he’d written based on his experiences in Haven. Truthfully, Thora was only skimming the book. The rest of her attention was focused on watching Alistair, whose blond head was bent over his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Alistair snuck a sideways look at Thora. She was so beautiful tucked into his chair like that, it was hard to believe she was really here and not just another fantasy. He’d imagined nights like this so many times. Surreptitiously, he patted his pocket. The small stone box with the ring in it still lay there, waiting for him to work up the courage to ask her. She was sure to have objections, sure to say ‘no’ automatically. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she would turn him down, for perfectly good, logical reasons. Perhaps it was foolish of him to even have considered it, really. He just wanted the chance to stand up next to her and tell the whole world that he loved her, and only her. As King, though, did he have that right? It was one thing to live with her, to openly be her lover, but marriage … that was another consideration entirely, as his Council had reminded him just that morning. And of course, he’d been equally foolish to have mentioned it to the children. Duncan had forgotten all about it, but Anawyn hadn’t, and her brown eyes asked him insistently every time she saw him—have you asked her yet? Anawyn had waited her whole life for this, and now Alistair was failing her because he was afraid of a two-letter word.

He bit back a sigh, mentally chastising himself. Here he was, with her, the way he’d always wanted, and he was moping because he wanted more? 

Thora was concerned by Alistair’s sudden fit of the fidgets. She closed the book, looking at him thoughtfully over the top. Bits and pieces of rumors she’d been hearing around the palace came together in her mind, and she winced, thinking she understood his discomfort.

Her voice interrupted his attempt to focus on his paperwork. “What happened at the Council meeting this morning?”

Alistair looked up. “The usual,” he said, shrugging. “Everybody thinks their particular group is getting the shaft while all the others get rich off their labor. Politics.”

“Really. Nothing more unusual than that?”

So she had heard. Alistair scowled, staring down at the papers in front of him. “They think I should get married again.”

The words hung in the air between them, the elephant in the room finally visible, and there was a silence as they each examined it from every angle.

At last, Alistair said, “They’re not wrong.” Thora’s eyes caught his, hers wide and startled. “An unmarried king is just a problem waiting to happen. All the unmarried women of this kingdom—and all the other kingdoms, for that matter—thrown at his head, everyone holding their breath to see which politically expedient match he’s going to make. There’s the backstabbing, the intrigue, the endless jockeying for position … and that’s just their fathers.” He grinned at his own attempted joke, but got no smile from Thora in return.

“I’m aware of the problems,” she said. “You should have seen the pressures my father got after my mother died.”

The air was thick between them. At last Alistair heaved a painful sigh. “So …” he said, not able to say anything further. It was the right time to ask, but she didn’t look receptive. Not at all. And the odds were that she would agree with his Council that a dwarf didn’t make a suitable wife and that he ought to find—

“Marry me.”

Alistair’s head snapped up, and he stared at her. “What did you say?” he asked in a whisper.

Thora’s eyes filled with tears. “I said marry me, Alistair. Maybe I—it’s probably the worst idea ever, but I don’t have to be Queen, I can just be your consort, and it would take away the political concerns because you wouldn’t be single, and I … I just can’t watch you with someone else,” she said, her chin quivering with the effort of keeping her sobs at bay. “I can’t!”

And then Alistair was kneeling next to the chair, gathering her into his strong arms. “Tell me you meant that,” he whispered into her hair.

She clung to his shirt. “I’m sorry, that must make it so much harder for you. I’ll take it back—“

“Don’t you dare!” he said fiercely. He sat back on his haunches, fumbling in his pocket, and Thora’s eyes widened when she saw the small box. “I’ve had this for weeks, I ordered it as soon as we got back to Denerim and got that whole mess with Dorothea taken care of. I’ve been carrying it around because you’re so sodding stubborn I was sure you’d say no.”

Thora sniffled, swiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “Is there a question there that I missed?” she said. She had to remind herself to breathe.

“Wait,” he said. He arranged her so that she was sitting forward in the chair, then went down on one knee before her, taking her tiny hand in his. “Thora, since the day I met you, you have been my leader, my comrade-in-arms, my partner, and my lover. Will you do me the very great honor of adding wife to that list?”

Thora was nodding before he got halfway through. “Yes, please,” she sobbed, throwing herself into his arms. 

Alistair was on the verge of asking if she meant it when he realized what a stupid question that would be at this point. Instead he kissed her, feeling her arms wind around his neck and her body press itself against his. He pulled her closer, one hand caressing her back. He was about to use the other to start opening her shirt when he realized he still held the ring box in his hand. He pulled back, panting. “Hang on.”

She made a small protesting noise in the back of her throat, rubbing herself against the hard bulge in his pants, and Alistair groaned. 

“Wait, love,” he said, picking her up off his lap. “First things first.” He stroked her hair, trying to calm himself for a moment. Then he opened the box, showing her the ring.  
“It’s perfect,” Thora said softly. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not a diamond, I know, but it’s—well, it’s you.” He removed the ring from the box so she could see it better—a simple silver band with a single fire opal embedded into it. “Such a beautiful stone, so smooth and pretty, but with such fire within. That’s you, my love.”

“You’re the only person who’s ever seen me that way,” she said, watching him slide the ring onto her finger. “Your Council isn’t going to be happy.”

“They will when they get used to the idea,” he said. He stood up, lifting her into his arms. “Besides, who cares what they think? I have better things to worry about right now.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting you out of these clothes,” he said, grinning at her. He pushed open the door leading into his—their—bedchamber, carrying her to the bed. She moved to strip his shirt off him, but he held her hands at her sides. “My turn first.” He reached for the hem of her tunic, drawing it slowly up and over her head. He bent, kissing her stomach and moving his mouth up until he could tease one nipple through the fabric covering it. Thora sighed, tangling her fingers in his hair to hold him to her. Alistair wrapped his arms around her, one hand reaching for the laces of her breastband. Soon the piece of fabric was removed, flung somewhere behind him, and his mouth was on her bare breasts.

Thora closed her eyes, feeling his mouth move lower as his hands slowly pushed down her leggings. When she was naked, Alistair laid her back across the bed, covering her body with his. Thora ran her hands possessively over his broad back. “My turn yet?”

He growled deep in his throat, kissing her, his hands holding her head still as his tongue plundered her mouth. Thora’s hands moved over his back and sides to find his erection, stroking the hard shaft through his pants. His breath hitched, sending a spike of desire through her. 

“My turn,” Thora said with satisfaction. She pushed at his shoulders until he sat back, and then her hands went for his belt, dexterously working the buckle. “Pants and smalls off,” she ordered.

“Aye, ser,” Alistair chuckled, not at all averse to removing the constricting items of clothing. He pulled his shirt off, as well. Thora sighed, her body reacting to the sight of his sculpted muscles and the proud erection jutting out at her. Pulling him back down onto the bed, she knelt at his side, her tongue starting at his collarbones and moving down over his chest and stomach to trace patterns along his length. Alistair moaned, thrusting against her teasing tongue, his hands reaching for her head.

Thora laughed, evading his hands and teasing him with little touches of her mouth. Finally Alistair moved, sitting up and drawing her into his lap. Thora rubbed herself against his length, catching her breath at the pleasure of it. Slowly she lowered herself onto him, her eyes meeting his, watching his eyelids flutter closed. She moved then, rocking against him, whimpering as her hardened nipples brushed against his chest. Alistair’s breathing grew harsh as his climax drew close, and Thora pressed harder against him, the tension spiraling tighter until finally it burst and she cried out, spasming against him, as Alistair thrust up into her with a triumphant shout.

They collapsed on the bed together. Alistair reached out, taking her hand in his, running his fingers over the smooth metal of her ring. “You are my dreams come true,” he whispered. 

“Oh, really?” Thora grinned at him. “Because I seem to recall you dreaming of Goldanna’s mince pies.”

He pounced then, rolling her over and tickling her, reveling in the sound of her shrieks of laughter beneath him. Soon enough the tickling turned to kissing and the kissing turned to lovemaking and at last the King of Ferelden and the Warden Commander drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.


End file.
